


It's Like That One Movie

by valdyra



Series: Tales of Interest [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A little fluffy, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, An Emotional Rollercoaster, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hardcore ... cuddling ?, Ensemble Cast, M/M, More Fighting, aka idk how it works and this whole fic is probably impossible, chronal accelerator abuse, i guess you could say this is a happy ending, i mean neither of them die and they seem happy enough so, kind of?, like. all of it, lots and lots of angst, mostly blind!jack, probably ooc im pretty bad at writing, that trope where a bg character figures it out before anyone else, vague Hurt/comfort, weird ass plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valdyra/pseuds/valdyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack makes a bad decision to visit his hometown on his birthday, and promptly gets caught in crossfire between Tracer and Reaper. When Tracer's malfunctioning accelerator drags them back through their own timelines, Jack finds himself stuck in memories he'd tried so hard to forget.</p><p>aka, back to the future with grumpy old men</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The noise of wheels screaming as they begged to move woke him. Drag races. Somewhere outside in the streets there was a bunch of dumb kids overcompensating for what they didn't have.

 

Jack rolled over on stone, opening his eyes to blur and smear. The visor.

 

Sleep-heavy hands fumbled on the box in place of a bedside table and he squinted as he clicked the mask into place. The world came into focus. It had rained; he could smell it on the concrete outside and it was seeping into the cellar he rested in. He'd need to find another place to sleep soon; this rabbit-hole wouldn't be empty forever.

 

Under cover of night he could slip away to another locale. Sniff out more conspiracy. Kill more innocents. He grumbled, dragging himself up now, ducking out from the little concrete room and pulling the pulse rifle out with him. Shouldering it, he stepped onto the road again, careful to keep out of the eyes of the city until he'd reached its borders and he could rest again, taking what he needed from locked stores and closed doors. He'd reasoned that it had been what he needed, that there was no other way.

 

It was weakness, was what it was. He was too much of a coward to return to the regrouping Overwatch, and his pride would barely let him stay as he was now, let alone reveal himself as the once great Jack Morrison.

 

He settled in a reserve just out of the state. The sun was rising, slowly, and if he was out here for a few days he'd miss the brunt of the investigation into the stolen weaponry. They wouldn't bother looking into gang warfare, so he was safe there at least. Besides, the forest cover was softer than concrete, if damper. A few days out of commission, then he'd keep going. Back to wherever it was he could call home now. If there was one, it'd be back where all this happened.

 

Besides, it was nearly his birthday. Jack had decided it was only fitting he returned home. But he'd have to be careful. Nothing overly conspicuous. Sunglasses, a coat, maybe a cap. It wasn't like there was much of his family left to recognize him, but the giant damn statue in the town center might do it. The stolen goods could scrape him the cash to buy some of his poorly made disguise legit, even. The right fence, maybe bring along a gun for intimidation purposes. Not that he wasn't already something, he supposed. He certainly wasn't sparkling blue eyes and ruffled blonde hair and light smiles any more. His dialect was almost exclusively growls by now. That was probably intimidating, yeah.

 

The forest was warmer out of the wind, the leaf cover trapping water and making the air a little wetter. The nights would be warmer here, and it was quieter further in; as he walked, the sounds from the world outside the woods faded, and all he could hear was the birds chattering to the water as it rushed over the rocks. He waded through the little river, noting it and planning to come back for a wash. He certainly needed one. After spotting a small alcove in the shade of a fallen tree, he hid his gun and jacket and settled in the deepest section of the river he could see to wash the dust and gunpowder off his skin.

 

He was getting too damn old for this shit. Once, he'd dreamed of settling down, the apple pie and picket fence life he'd found so empty when he was a kid. Buy a small house off his own hard-earned cash, maybe with a little yard, a dog or something. And a loving partner to wake up to in the morning, hardened hands running over his back and grumbling accented “morning,”s and “get up,”s to him, laughing that stupid fucking laugh that always sent shocks running through him - -

 

“Fuck's sake,” he muttered, trying to drag his thoughts and his half-mast away from memories. Gabriel had been dead for a long time, and no matter how many times Jack remembered his dick in that ass he wasn't exactly coming back. Those last moments he remembered in crystal clarity, almost slow motion. The punches Gabe had thrown, his snarls and snaps that Jack was an idiot blinded by his own pride if he thought Overwatch was still doing good. Jack's parries, his pleads back, wondering out loud what he'd done as if he didn't know. The strike commander job had ripped them both apart and as Jack pushed Gabriel off him, as Gabriel stumbled back and fire blossomed in front of them, Jack found himself wishing that he'd turned the job down. He'd watched Gabriel slam against the wall like a doll cast aside, slumping down. Seen debris swallow him up and finally felt the hard ground violently appear to meet Jack himself. Forced himself forward, out of the building, too many bones broken to count. Hid. Watched the world around him forget Jack Morrison, forget Overwatch, and move on.

 

Hopefully they had forgotten enough to let him return home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was another six days before he even came close to the borders of his little hometown. Choice amounts of hitchhiking, a fair amount of sold goods and stolen clothing had led him here, finally. Now, the world barely in focus under a pair of sunglasses and a cap, he stood in the park, looking down at the modest little gravestone he knew was marked with his name.

 

Of course, without the visor in his pocket, he couldn't read it, but it was the thought that counted, he supposed. He'd done well to make it here without anyone picking up it was him; now he just had to make it to another Talon base and clear them out. He'd have to double-check a map to find the next one, but he doubted they'd be able to resist having a base near the resting place of one of Overwatch's leading commanders.

 

“It's his birthday, you know,” sighed a voice beside him, and he stiffened. Lena – Tracer was standing beside him, hands in her pockets. Her jacket was awkwardly set over the chronal accelerator, perhaps in an attempt to hide it. It wasn't working, and the distinctive shape of the device under the coat was giving her figure an odd, unbalanced bulk.

 

He grunted back, trying his best to make himself sound different. Lena knew him. Anything he said or did she might pick up on. Maybe she already knew, maybe she'd come to track him down. He wasn't exactly keeping his head down staring at his own goddamn grave like this.

 

“It's a right shame,” she continued, accent stirring up more memories in his chest. Trading one-liners across a battlefield, an easy back-and-forth between them. “Place hasn't been kept as well as it used to be. Guess it's just time.”

 

Silence. Jack looked around, as if he was taking note of the surroundings. All he could see was vague smears of brown and green, approximately two of which he could tell were trees and not shrubs or park benches. He cursed himself for ever thinking this was a good idea.

 

She turned to look at him; the movement caught the side of Jack's eye. _Here we go,_ he thought.

 

“You come to the memorial often, love?”

 

Or not. Trying to make himself sound as gruff and bitter as he could, which wasn't too hard, he responded.

 

“Only when it counts.”

 

Small laugh. “Me too. Thought I'd come and say hello today. Wish him a happy birthday, all that.”

 

Another grunt. They stood in silence for a moment and it took a moment for Jack to realize that it was _silent._ The birds had quietened down and he couldn't hear any chatter around them. Cars had slowed, stuck in a jam somewhere, waiting too patiently to ram their horns or yell their protests. His muscles tensed. He could see Tracer beside him fidget. She liked the silence about at much as he did. It was unnatural, wrong.

 

He didn't have his rifle. Fuck. This whole “disguise” thing was working out just great. He could barely see and Tracer was a liability. She'd be leading any soldiers right to him. Maybe that was the point, luring them out into the open so he'd be forced to fight back, forced to reveal himself. Regular soldiers he could manage without too much trouble, but if any special agents like that damned Reaper showed he'd have hell to pay. If he slipped his visor on Tracer would know, and she'd sure as hell figure out who he was under the mask. He really wasn't making it difficult to put two and two together. This was a terrible idea from the start and he should have avoided this town completely. Maybe just grabbing a coffee from somewhere would have been better for his health. Probably his blood pressure too. Jesus, it wouldn't be long now till he got himself killed.

 

The sound of a shotgun safety clicking off sounded behind him.

 

“Aw, hell,” he mumbled. Couldn't he go a week without a life-and-death situation?

 

He turned and Tracer was gone, and he ducked out of the way before the shotgun roared its buckshot into the ground. Jerking the sunglasses off his face, he fumbled with his visor and pulled off the coat. Getting in too close would be a mistake with those shotguns still blazing, but he couldn't do a damn thing without his rifle besides throw some punches. Blue streaked around him and the sound of pistol fire peppered the figure in front of him. It hissed and turned to smoke, reappearing behind Jack and he turned, meeting the challenge with a fist to the face. Or, rather, a fist to that white mask. It caught the Talon agent off guard and he responded quickly; it was hard to keep up with Reaper's speed and a few more of those clawed punches landed than Jack would've liked. Tracer was back again, blinking around Reaper and distracting him for vital moments where Jack could find weakness in his defense.

 

People were screaming. Were they? His hearing was funny, he was getting dizzy. The shotgun had fired too close.

 

Reaper grumbled again and he was gone, Jack punching into a cloud of smoke. He spun, visor searching for a target and finding none. Tracer stopped momentarily, scanning the park as quickly as Jack was, and it was her that Reaper made a beeline for this time. Quick shotgun blasts, forcing her to move fast, but the fallout had nicked her accelerator and she stumbled as it recalibrated itself. Reaper took the advantage and barreled into her. Jack wasn't long after, hitting Reaper full force in an attempt to stop him from whatever he was about to do, but he wasn't quick enough. Reaper's hand was already knuckle-deep in Tracer's accelerator, and the device flickered weakly as it died. Tracer looked terrified, and there was a moment of pause where none of them quite knew what to do. Just as Tracer's mouth looked like it was forming words, Jack felt himself stretching out, like taffy, and his vision darkened.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Birds chattered to themselves. He could hear muttering, and soft grumbling like a snore. The mask was stuffy. All he could smell was that dampness which appeared when something hadn't seen light in too long.

 

He pushed himself up and squinted through the visor. He could only see flat, grassy plains through it, maybe a few trees nearby, framed by buildings stretching toward the sky, imitating the trees. A park. He heard Tracer's cough and looked about; she looked pale, her hands shaking as she leaned against a tree trunk, curled over. The insides of the chronal accelerator were hanging out, ripped apart by Reaper's claws.

 

Reaper! Where was he?

 

“Where's Reaper?” he said, more of a statement than a question. Tracer stopped, looking across at him. “Did he get away?”

 

She gestured. A crumpled heap of black lay about ten feet away. He seemed about as hard-hit as the rest of them. From the looks of it, though, he was breathing: that snoring sound Jack had heard was coming from him.

 

Jack pulled himself up on unsteady legs and approached Tracer. “You alright?”

 

“I dunno,” she responded, slurring her words. “Been a while since I jumped like this. Forgot what it was like.”

 

A sinking feeling was quickly appearing in Jack's chest as he remembered just why she wore that thing. “Jumped?”

 

“Disassociation,” she forced out, pushing off the tree. “Jumpin' up and down my timeline. Looks like I pulled you along with me, love.”

 

She stared up at him and he took a step back, giving her room to move. She did, slowly steadying herself and moving over to Reaper, cautiously. “If I look around for a mo, could you make sure he doesn't split?”

 

Jack nodded. He leaned back on Tracer's tree and settled for watching Reaper as Tracer slipped out of sight. His gaze drifted back to the pile of leather which had begun grumbling as it shifted, evidently coming to. This was going to be fantastic. At least the guy didn't have his shotguns any more.

 

Reaper pushed himself up to a sitting position and huffed, a clawed hand moving over the mask in a parody of massaging his temples. Folding his arms defensively, Jack watched him as he seemed to slowly take in his environment. It took the man longer than Jack expected to notice him, but when he did Reaper was on him in a second, lunging toward him with sharpened fingertips and a grudge to level. Jack sidestepped. He'd expected an attack, but didn't expect the follow up slash to his shoulder, claws slipping down hard leather and rooting themselves halfway to his elbow.

 

“Can't you go a damn second without attacking someone?” he spat, hand closing around Reaper's wrist and tugging his fingers out of the lines he'd opened on Jack's arm. Reaper responded with a jab to the kidney and a growl, and Jack's breath left him. He used his free hand to swipe up under Reaper's chin, hearing a satisfying crunch as teeth collided and hopefully broke against each other. He heard a stutter masked by interference and then a quick retaliation; Jack had been too busy watching the mask and the injured act to notice the claws, looking down just in time to see Reaper's other hand rake viciously down his chest. He grunted, letting go of Reaper and dizzying at the pain. Those cuts were deep, he could feel them.

 

Reaper made a noise in his chest, his shoulders moving. Something that had once been a laugh, maybe. He took a breath as if to speak, like he was about to mock Jack, but Tracer interrupted from behind.

 

“Well, it's one way to keep him interested.”

 

Jack had never been more relieved in that moment that she existed. Reaper turned, claws bared, and she was still quick, even without the accelerator, but there was fear in her eyes. As if there was a brevity to the situation she'd yet to tell them, hidden consequences she was trying so hard to avoid. She kept trying to start sentences, half-formed warnings and pleads to stop so that she could explain what was happening. Inevitably, she would tire, and if Reaper killed her they'd both be stuck here. Jack honestly didn't expect to live much longer than Tracer in that situation.

 

Oh well.

 

He forced himself forward again, quickly losing energy and blood as he aimed to take Reaper down. His hands closed on nothing and Reaper appeared behind him, forcing his head back and a tight arm encircling his throat. Another one of those sounds in mimic of laughs, right in his ear.

 

Tracer could finally finish her sentence.

 

“Jack Morrison's just been promoted, far as I saw,” she panted quickly, trying to catch her breath. “If we can find Winston, we can get the accelerator repaired and go right home.”

 

Reaper's grip tightened on Jack's throat. “What?” came the snarl.

 

Pointedly, half the optimism gone from her voice, she lifted the innards of the device hanging from her chest. “You broke this, and you pulled me out of time again. But,” she paused, her voice regaining its tone in an almost sarcastic way, “you get to come along for the ride!”

 

There was a long, cool silence between the three of them. Jack was getting dizzy again. How much blood had he lost?

 

Reaper hissed something, not quite legible to Jack in his state.

 

“Listen, love,” she said, brightness almost threatening, “you're welcome to come along with me and go home, or you can dawdle around here and relive the next thirty years of your life over again. Up to you.”

 

Another growl, and Jack felt himself drop.

 

 

 

 

_Dated music, overlarge browned hands tapping the beat on his shoulder. Poor singing, but it didn't matter._

 

“ _How old is this music?” he laughed, pushing a hand through his hair as Gabe crowed lyrics he barely knew._

 

“ _My parents listened to it,” grinned Gabe, and his toothy smile set rockets off in Jack's chest. “Said they were really big when they were younger.”_

 

_He had to admit the beat was catchy, all synth and drums and bass. Gabe was smiling up at him and shifted, leaning back and resting his head in Jack's lap, brandishing the music player in his face._

 

“ _You love it. Don't pretend you don't.”_

 

_Gabe's optimism was infectious. His awful tune was making it difficult to keep a straight face. Jack pulled his beanie over his eyes, and Gabe really laughed now, pulling the material back up again so he could squint at Jack in a mock of their supervisor (who Jack was sure needed glasses)._

 

“ _Come here,_ _estúpido_ _,” he growled playfully, pulling Jack's head down to kiss him. Jack pushed back, raising an eyebrow._

 

“ _Making out to grandpa music? Really?” he quipped, and Gabe raised his eyebrows back, still with that shit-eating grin._

 

“ _It's_ _romántico_ _,” he said. “Romantic.”_

 

 

 

 

Jack awoke with a weight on his heart and aching in his chest. He could hear muffled talking outside the little room he was sat in, a small white blur with what felt like a hospital cot squashed into it. His chest was covered in gauze and bandage and he was surprised for a moment that Tracer had found a hospital that would accept him. His health insurance had expired years ago.

 

Maybe that was the point.

 

He wondered if Reaper had already got them in trouble. His next thought was a realization on his mask's absence, and he perked up, searching the white for a red and blue smudge. His suit was hanging off the end of his bed, sad and slightly disheveled, and he quickly pulled it on despite the discomfort it caused him. It still smelled of blood and dust; he supposed it would've been too much to expect it washed. The voices outside were becoming more distinguishable in their anger, the disagreement escalating into argument.

 

“It's not important who they are, it's their right to stay here while they wait to go home - ”

 

“You crazy? Do you understand what you're telling me? Has peace driven you insane, Morrison?”

 

“They're our allies, Gabe! It's our responsibility to take care of our own, even if we don't recognize them yet - - ”

 

“For fuck's _sake_ , look at this situation! That Tracer told us she came from the future. The god damn future! Does that sound like reality to you?”

 

“It's also a Lena, if not ours, and honestly, I thought you'd be a little more accepting to their situation than this - ”

 

Jack sighed, leaning back into the cot and staring up at the ceiling. Even with his visor on and the red turned to a vague pink, the ceiling was bare. This wasn't making him feel any better.

 

“It's clearly bullshit, Jack! Wake the fuck up and stop playing the boyscout! We're not fighting tin cans any more, these are people and they know how to manipulate you - ”

 

“Will you _stop_ talking about this stupid conspiracy theory shit, Gabe - ”

 

There was a silence between them, then a third voice, quieter. Jack couldn't hear what it was saying, but heard the door open and looked up to see Tracer standing in the doorway, her accelerator's inner wirings no longer hanging out of her chest but still clearly not functioning. She closed the door behind her.

 

“Fancy seeing you 'round here, Jack,” she said, raising her eyebrows. Jack sighed. Of course she'd seen him with the mask off. Of course. “Been a little while, hasn't it?”

 

“When did you find out?” he said, and he stopped himself from adding “ _Does Reaper know now, too?”_

 

She shrugged. “Came looking for you,” she explained. “I did hope to break you in easy back in Indiana, but things don't always go to plan, do they, love?”

 

He grunted.

 

“Still dunno how Reaper figured out we were there, but I guess Talon's only as fast as Overwatch is, right?” She laughed like the gravity of their situation was irrelevant. “He didn't see you without the mask. Lad's been sitting at the back of Winston's lab sulking with his arms crossed since we got here.”

 

There was a pause, like she was expecting a response, but after a labored few seconds she continued.

 

“Accelerator should be all patched up by the end of this week, then we should be able to jump home, as long as I don't blink out again, yeah?”

 

He nodded slowly.

 

Her voice dropped slightly, losing its lilting volume, and she seemed a little more urgent.

 

“A quick word about them. They think we're Overwatch agents from the future. Reyes doesn't trust any of us.” That small smile again.

 

“As expected,” Jack huffed, a ghost of the easy banter they'd once had. Tracer's smile didn't drop as quickly as it had before.

 

“There he is,” she said, eyes warming. “There's Jack.”

 

Slipping off the bed and wincing, he stood to face Tracer. She looked up at him from the seat she'd taken on the bed.

 

“Anything I need to worry about? Is this – changing anything?”

 

“No,” she sighed, and something was hollow in the back of her eyes. “You can't change anything. Don't worry, love.”

 

He stepped toward the door and listened for the sour bickering he remembered from just before the UN bombing, and upon hearing none, opened the door into the long hallways of the – quarantine ward, apparently. He looked back at Tracer. She shrugged, jumping off the bed and following, bounce in her step. They made their way down the corridor, Tracer already talking about the dinner they were missing, walking at this pace. He insisted that if she was hungry she should go on ahead.

 

“I'll catch up,” he mumbled, and she nodded, already hopping off to find something to eat. Jack swerved and entered a bathroom, staring at the red-tinted figure in the mirror.

 

Going into that mess hall was going to damn well kill him and he knew it. Seeing the people he'd been avoiding for so long like they were fresh out of his memories was even worse than returning to Overwatch with his tail between his legs. Maybe he'd find a way into one of the kitchens later and take something from the pantries. It wasn't like the halls of these buildings would be any different than he remembered.

 

“Damn it!” he yelled, slamming a fist against the sink. It cracked. He felt his wounds prick; he was probably reopening stitches with outbursts like this. He wondered if Angela was the only one who'd patched him up. The less people who figured out who he was, the better. Though, if Overwatch was on his tail, he suspected there was more than just Tracer that had figured out how far he'd fallen.

 

Jack slumped over the sink, shoulders hunching up as he stared down the drain. If Tracer jumped again he'd be stuck here. If Tracer didn't jump again he'd be dragged back to the reformed Overwatch, and he'd have to watch it crumble into pieces again. What the hell was the point? At least if he died here he'd die among his friends.

 

“Not eating?” came the hiss behind him. He tensed and jerked back to see Reaper, inches away, mask chipped on one side. The short-lived satisfaction he got from knowing it'd been his jabs that'd damaged it was cut off as he spoke again. “Thought you would have been excited to play happy family.”

 

“Think again. I don't know these people,” he lied.

 

That malicious half-laugh followed him as he turned away. “Really?”

 

Jack grunted, wondering if he could still go back to that room and pretend he couldn't move.

 

Foul-smelling smoke was slowly seeping into his nostrils, a mixture of the harsh tang of an uncontrollable fire and the putrid stench of rotting flesh. He felt Reaper's claws dig into his shoulders; at this rate there wouldn't be much left of the jacket he wore besides the 76 on the back and a few bloodstained rags.

 

“If you're going to kill me, at least wait until we get back,” he said, blandly. “I'd prefer not to have most of Overwatch trying to kill Tracer.”

 

There was a long pause where Jack could only assume Reaper was considering his options. Killing Jack and letting Overwatch take care of Tracer would hit two birds with one stone, but it would leave him stuck here, waiting out Overwatch's implosion and the subsequent thirty years of mercenary work, and then waiting for present day Reaper to go back in time so that the man with claws steadily sinking deeper into Jack's shoulders could take his own place in the future... present? Jack didn't know. This was all too confusing for him.

 

A huff, and those claws roughly removed themselves from his shoulders. “Fine,” spat Reaper, that awful smoke expelling from his mouth. Jack supposed the man in front of him thought the situation sounded as unnecessary as he did. This whole situation was like something out of a god damn movie, and he was slowly coming to hate it.

 

He suspected Reaper hated him more, though.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is the definition of "quantity over quality" tbh. i need a beta


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the positive feedback on this fic!! i'm Super Sorry that this chapter is tiny but the next chapter's gonna be pretty long so i hope that makes up for it :v

The holes in his shoulder needed stitches, and the emptiness of most halls during the late evening allowed Jack to find a spare med kit and patch himself up. If he kept out of the way, nobody would notice the extra wounds, the blood quickly drying on the jacket. He probably smelled of the stuff by now.

 

He was still too jumpy to sleep, so he decided to spend the few hours waiting for the lull between night owls putting themselves to bed and early birds rising for the day resolutely cleaning out the inside of his gun. If he was awake this time tomorrow, he could manage a shower, perhaps. With the mask off, he couldn't see most of the grime, internal or external, but at least he was breathing fresh air, feeling the smooth surfaces of the gun's many parts. It was relaxing.

 

Despite what Tracer had said, he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of the people he would have called friends, take the mask off and worry them about what would happen to the Jack of their time. The way things were going, he'd already have to do that back in – the future. All the people here, the friends he'd let die and the organisation he'd let fall apart... it was all too difficult. Everything was painful, everything was a reopened wound. He could hear Reinhardt's roaring laughter from here. Probably one of Torbjorn's jokes. He always seemed to find them funny. Jack had never quite figured them out.

 

It was about four in the morning when Jack pulled himself out of the room again, slipping down halls and sneaking through offices desperately hoping he wasn't waking anybody. This was something he was at least used to; the silence was calming, almost. Even if he did have a gnawing anxiety that he'd be caught any second.

 

The kitchens were bigger than he remembered and just as empty. He had an hour to himself, if he remembered correctly – the chefs responsible for breakfast would begin at five. Then a good number of the Overwatch team would wake at six, though there had always been some heavy sleepers. Winston had been the worst. Once he had settled down there was no moving him until he wanted to. He remembered Gabe's frustration, always the early riser, trying to force the gorilla out of bed before noon and finding himself embedded in the opposite wall.

 

Remembering his expression got a quiet laugh out of Jack; the way he'd limped out of Winston's room looking quite disheveled. He'd been sulky for the rest of the day, something Gabe had done quite often when things didn't go quite his way. When Jack would ask for something in the remainder of those days Gabe would pout, narrowing his eyes and squinting at him like he was a small-time crook who'd just broken into a bank. It must have looked intimidating to those who didn't know him, a six-foot-something angry super-soldier narrowing his eyes and squaring his shoulders. It'd been much harder for Jack to take him seriously, though, when he tried to puff himself up like that, haughtily shaking off a mistake as if he'd meant to do that.

 

Then after another few hours he'd be all over Jack again, all hands and sweet-talk. It didn't matter if he was training, cooking, washing or even doing paperwork, somehow Gabe would find him, slipping his arms around Jack's waist and rumbling words he didn't quite understand into his ear. It didn't matter how many times they fought, it'd be about a day and then Gabe would be back. Always cuddly, always draped over his shoulders or smiling up from his lap. Every time it happened, Jack fell for it.

 

He remembered being furious with Gabe over something, he barely remembered what, and actively trying to avoid him, knowing eventually he'd be found and smothered by Gabe's tactile apology but being violently averse to the idea at the time. Escaping to the rooftops, he'd sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the building, looking out at the twittering city as the sky darkened from blue to grey. Yet, despite his best efforts, Gabe had found him, resting beside him and leaning on his shoulder, an arm around his waist. Looking back, it must have been uncomfortable for him. He'd always been just that little bit taller than Jack. There would have been a crick in his neck by the end of the evening, after all but the most resolute of the city lights had winked out for a few hours, their breathing still steady and in time. He remembered it was then that Gabe had spoken to him for the first time since their row, and it had been an apology. Despite his pride, the man knew when to back down when it came to Jack.

 

He walked into the pantry and looked around. If he could take something back to the little room he wouldn't have to come out for a few days, and if he managed to swipe enough he might be able to avoid the others until Tracer's accelerator was repaired. The last thing he wanted was interaction with these people. It would just reopen old wounds and he'd end up lashing out -

 

“Hey - Jack, is that you? What the fuck you doing in here - ?”

 

He scrambled to shove the pomegranate he was holding back into its place on the shelf, turning around and coming face to face with someone he'd left behind in the wreckage all those years ago.

 

Any response he could have made caught and died in his throat.

 

“Oh,” Gabe said, and his expression darkened. “It's just you.”

 

Jack nodded weakly. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

 

“What you doing in there? Planting bugs? Setting up a bomb?”

 

“Eating,” he said, truthfully. He could feel his heart beating faster and faster. God, he was so relieved the mask covered his face so that Gabe couldn't see how quickly the blood was rushing to his cheeks. He felt like a teenage boy again.

 

“Why?”

 

“I slept through dinner,” he said, less truthfully. He hadn't slept at all since he'd come to.

 

There he went with that squinting. Jack couldn't breathe. His minds' eye showed him the same face, broken and lifeless. Heard himself scream for help, for anyone to save them. Unsteady, hitched breathing below him and the simultaneous hope and terror that he'd make it out of this, but he'd make it out alone. The sound of debris buckling under its own weight. Gunfire, and Jack running from Gabe like a goddamned coward, leaving him to die in a concrete grave.

 

The Gabe in front of him, the live one, grunted and stepped back so that Jack could get through. He closed the door behind them, but just as Jack was about to slip away, he felt something catch on one of the holes Reaper had left in the sleeve of his jacket.

 

“What happened to you, anciano?” Gabe said, looking across at him with raised eyebrows. He'd stuck a hooked finger in one of the claw holes. “Mauled by a tiger?”

 

“Something like that,” he muttered.

 

“Your jacket doesn't seem much beyond sentimental,” Gabe continued, gesturing at the five long rips down its front. Jack knew what he was doing. Probing. Trying to get a reaction out of him to see what he did. Damn if it wasn't working, too; Jack was already pretty distracted, and the unwanted attention was only making it worse. “It's pretty torn up.”

 

He'd picked it up at a gas station a couple years after the explosion. A novelty item in celebration of the Fourth of July. It was hard synthetic leather, he'd thought, it'd do better than the flimsy clothing stolen from empty summer houses he'd raided. It certainly didn't owe him anything now, after all these years.

 

Jack was having some trouble responding with proper sentences. Christ, he wasn't seventeen anymore, he could do this.

 

“It does its job,” he forced out.

 

If Gabe's eyebrows could raise any further, they would have disappeared into his hairline. He unhooked his finger from Jack's sleeve and stepped around to face him. Sizing him up, Jack realized. His stomach tightened. He didn't have to remember the way Gabe tensed his shoulders and folded his arms when he was trying to hide what he was doing. It was right in front of him, like something out of a dream.

 

“And what is that?” came the inevitable push.

 

“Protection.” Jack turned away, heading for the door. He'd have to come to breakfast now. This was just torment, and he couldn't exactly go back into the pantry now that he'd woken Gabe up. How the hell was he going to explain away keeping his mask on? He was having trouble talking to Gabe like a normal, functioning person and the plan was to fabricate some tall tale about how he couldn't breathe without the damn thing or something?

 

Behind him came a bitter laugh. “Really?”

 

He stopped, his back still to Gabe, a hand on the doorframe. The room was silent save for the muted humming of the fridges.

 

“Forget something?”

 

There was another stretch of quiet before Jack replied. “Déjà vu.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anciano = (very) old man


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the feedback that this story has got is absolutely insane! thank you guys so much for all the positivity!!
> 
> (also, i'm trying really hard to keep body language consistent between reaper & gabe and 76 & jack, so keep your eyes out for characters doing similar actions ;D )

Reaper, on the other hand, was doing just fine, thank you very much.

 

As much as he hated to admit it, the familiarity of this place was disorienting him, in a way. He'd become so used to Talon complexes and their deliberate winding difficulty that knowing where people would most likely be was – unusual. He didn't have to worry about getting lost.

 

Of course, to every positive is a negative, and this place's negative was Jack fucking Morrison. He'd forgotten just how infuriating the man's constant overoptimism was. He seemed to be making a point to greet Reaper every time he passed. He was already stuck in a pretty small location with a bunch of self-righteous pricks, not to mention Tracer keeping a frustratingly close eye on him, and now he had to relive memories as well?

 

He stood in the corner of Winston's lab, arms folded, leering at Tracer from her seat on the other side of the room. She was working through some notes, the insides of her accelerator spread across the table. It wasn't fair that she was so bright and optimistic about the situation. She could be pulled out of time at any moment, leaving them here in the past, which wouldn't bother him if Overwatch didn't think he was a future member. Now they'd come looking for him when it was reformed and it'd get damn messy. Couldn't she have just kept her loud mouth shut about him?

 

Oh, but she'd justified it with “You can't change anything”. Like that mattered. He still didn't want to interact with these kids. He was getting hungry, though; he'd avoided the rec rooms and more crowded areas, not willing to participate in conversations that might hit any sensitive subjects – i.e., any subject – and he was not about to sit there and listen to Morrison act like everything was OK. So, here he sat, wondering if it was too late now to wait out the next thirty years in some abandoned bunker.

 

“Oi, Reaper, go find something to eat, will you?” Tracer looked up, apparently aware he'd been glaring for the last ten minutes or so. “Do something constructive.”

 

He made a point not to respond. Sure, being petty wouldn't get him anywhere, but neither would being polite. A beat passed between them before he saw Tracer start another sentence, but someone had appeared in the doorway and she turned.

 

“Lena, Winston's just said he's gonna rest up for a few hours. He'll be back around lunch.”

 

Speak of the goddamned devil. Jack Morrison's bright smile and easy walk were exactly the opposite of who he wanted around this morning.

 

Tracer nodded. “Totally fine, love. I've got to finish this bloody paperwork, but I think Reaper was just about to come up for some tea.”

 

For fuck's _sake._ Jack turned to him, eyes warm and a smile still present on that face. “I'm heading the same way. How about we walk together, soldier?”

 

“I'm sure he'd love that, Jack.”

 

Her head was already back down, but Reaper was sure she was hiding a smirk. Couldn't she just leave him alone? It wasn't like he was killing anyone sitting here. Walking alongside Jack Morrison, though, might drive him to murder.

 

Stiffly, he walked forward, Jack giving a final wave to Tracer as they left.

 

The halls were brighter in the sunlight of the day; he'd only wandered in the synthetic light of early evening where he was least likely to be stopped. Here, in late morning, it felt warmer. Nearly each person who passed, Jack would greet with a smile, an earnest greeting, or both. Some of them, Reaper recognized. Agents who'd go on to become part of Blackwatch. He could list off what happened to the faces as they passed him. Killed in action. Missing in action. Dead, dead, missing, dead.

 

“Gabe ran into your friend early this morning.”

 

The name made him jump, slightly. As far as anyone was concerned, Reyes was dead and Reaper had taken his place. Unfortunately, here he had to adjust to hearing a dead man's name in casual conversation and reminding himself that it wasn't his own.

 

“My – friend?”

 

Jack nodded, opening a door and letting Reaper pass through first. Smart. He'd be able to see if Reaper tried anything. “You know. Flag jacket, grumpy disposition.” He lowered his voice as he appeared beside Reaper again, making a face and imitating the soldier's growl. “ 'I'm too old for this'.”

 

Something in Reaper wanted to laugh with Jack. This was what he did, this idle talk. Always had to start conversation, fill silence with words. He'd sure shut the hell up when he was pissed, though, and it made it damn easy to tell when he was. Jack had always been an open book.

 

“Oh,” he muttered, folding his arms. “Him.”

 

“Quarter past four, raiding the kitchens. Gabe convinced him to come up to breakfast with us instead. It's good to know he's at least feeling better. I saw those gashes when Angela took him down to medical, they looked nasty.”

 

Reaper was quite proud of the way 76's breath had loudly caught in his throat at the slashes, the weak grunt he'd let out and the stumbling steps he'd taken away from Reaper. Nothing made him feel more satisfied than the quick-set desperation of the cornered. Had Tracer not shown up he could have finished that old man off right there.

 

“Through here, but I guess you already know that.” Jack directed him through another hall and into a wide room full of people he remembered almost too well. His eyes drifted over a Reinhardt whose shoulders weren't heavy and back wasn't getting arthritic, an Ana with both eyes, and a young McCree with both arms intact. They waved Reaper over, and as he got closer he noticed Soldier76 apparently trying to take up as little space as possible wedged between Ana and – himself. What he'd give to look like that again; relatively smooth skin, a solid body and a face that didn't rot away every other second. It was like looking in a mirror, only this mirror showed what used to be instead of what was.

 

76's mask was still on his face, and Reaper wondered what kind of excuse he'd made up to keep it on. Quickly following that was a thought as to whether Reaper could use the same excuse. He looked quite uncomfortable, staring down into the plate of food in front of him as Ana talked over him. On his other side, Reyes wasn't exactly being responsive. He ignored most of the conversation, only contributing vague grunts to questions directed at him.

 

Jack offered a space beside him and smiled as Reaper begrudgingly sat down. The scowl Reyes gave him was only matched by Reaper's responding look of contempt, which would have been scathing had he actually seen it.

 

“Reaper, right?” asked McCree from beside Reyes, hat not muddied by years of grime and conflict.

 

He nodded stiffly.

 

“McCree. Jesse McCree,” said the boy in a poor attempt at suave. He stuck out a hand over the table, adjusting his hat, and Jack watched in amusement as Reaper took it, absently shaking. It wouldn't be long until he lost this arm.

 

Reyes' eyes flicked from Reaper and McCree's handshake to the holes in 76's jacket. Before he could make any accusations, though, Ana spoke. Jesus. Fareeha looked just like her. Reaper had almost forgotten how piercing Ana's gaze could be when it was focused, like she was staring right through the mask and into the barely living figure within.

 

“How'd you two join Overwatch?” She smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Do we get to ask that?”

 

Reinhardt grinned, hunched over the table like a clown in a circus car. “From the way our good soldier here's been avoiding questions, I think not!”

 

On the word 'soldier', he slapped 76's back. The breath audibly left 76's body at the force of the contact. Reaper stifled a laugh.

 

“Careful,” warned Jack, though his smile was quickly widening too. “No need to reopen his wounds.”

 

 _Too late,_ thought Reaper, almost proudly. He could see red slowly soaking into the bandages visible through 76's ripped jacket. The injury was proving to be worse than he'd thought it was.

 

McCree had apparently noticed also. “Might be a little late on that one,” he snickered, and Jack's smile faltered.

 

Soldier76 stood and stepped back from the table. “I'm going back down to medical,” he mumbled. He was a quarter of the way across the room when Jack jerked out of his seat.

 

“I'll come too,” he said, lengthening his stride and falling into step with 76.

 

There was another strange quiet where they watched the two of them walk towards the door, this time interrupted by Reyes.

 

“Hey, Jack,” he grizzled, and Jack looked back from the hallway. He could just see 76's shoulders hunch up. “Be quick, pijo. I don't wanna be waiting for you at break.”

 

He nodded, smiling back at Reyes, and disappeared around the corner. Reaper could hear their voices echoing back through the hall, though he couldn't hear what they were saying.

 

The slang had stirred something in him. Jack getting huffy and angry, flustered; stopping and restarting sentences when he had to confront Reaper but otherwise avoiding him all day. Ana tipping him off that he'd gone up to the rooftop. It had been damn cold up there, too, and even with a hoodie on he'd been freezing, but there Jack was sitting there in nothing but one of those shirts that were always too goddamned small for him. Making a point, as usual. He'd stayed silent for most of the evening, too, and it was about then he realized that if he ever wanted to make their relationship work Reaper would have to be the bigger man. He was bitter and petty, yes, but Jack could be far more malicious than he was. He'd always known how to use his words, aggravate people almost too quickly, hit them where it hurt.

 

Reaper liked to take things slower. Start out with idle conversation, let them do all the heavy lifting themselves. If you got a person talking, carry the conversation just enough to make it seemed like you were interested, the things they'd end up confessing to was often above and beyond what was needed. Old special ops missions with Blackwatch resurfaced in his mind. Teaching kids that lying about yourself was the right thing to do, that making sure people heard what they wanted to hear was how you stayed alive. It had leaked into his personal life, too, even before Talon had approached him.

 

“ _Where were you? We were supposed to get dinner two hours ago, I've been looking all over for you - ”_

 

“ _I was training the new recruits. Time got the better of me. Lo siento mucho.” His hand found the side of Jack's face, thumb resting on his cheekbone. Jack raised his shoulders, brow furrowing, the way it always did when he was stopping himself from caving to Spanish endearments and warm cuddles. He wouldn't meet Gabe's eyes. “If I'd known you were worried,_ _cariño, I wouldn't have stayed so long.”_

 

_Jack mumbled something, still looking away, and Gabe pulled him closer. There was no resistance now as his arms encircled Jack's waist and his chin rested on his shoulder, its muscles slowly loosening. He knew how to play Jack like a fiddle, what excuses to use when he was out, how to bring him around. The feeling of guilt that pooled in his stomach and heavied his shoulders was lessening with each new lie he spun, each time he stayed away from Jack simply because he just didn't want to deal with his whining about how hard his new job was, the job Gabe should've had when he was out there commanding the goddamn team while Jack just stood around and looked pretty - -_

 

He stood from the table, abrupt, and left without another word, feeling Reyes' eyes burning holes into his back. He hadn't eaten, but if 76 got to sneak around after hours, why shouldn't he? He'd be able to do it better anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It started raining around lunch and worsened through the afternoon, large raindrops forcing against the roof and windows of the facility and drowning out most chatter. Reaper had resigned himself to wandering the halls, but he was getting damn hungry now, and he considered smoking out into the street and reaping a few strays. Ratty, diseased animals down backalleys and in dumpsters. Sure, it wouldn't be pleasant or fill him up, but it'd do. Something to keep him going until Tracer's accelerator was repaired.

 

Thunder rattled the remaining bones in his body. Winston and Tracer were both back into doing testing on the accelerator; Winston kept asking how it'd been damaged this severely. Tracer had covered for him, which had been surprising. He realized now that it'd look a little suspicious if she'd told the truth, undermining her “We're Overwatch, but from the future!” story.

 

“Reaper, hey,” came a voice from behind him. Jack Morrison seemed to be following him around like a damn curse. “Been looking for you. Here.”

 

He turned, an affirmative to continue speaking. Jack handed him a pack of strawberries. The hell was this?

 

“76's been rebandaged and moved from that little room in Quarantine now that there's some free quarters upstairs. Couple of soldiers on their way to an environmental outpost in Antarctica right now.”

 

He ran a hand through golden hair. Reaper watched, an unwelcome tightness in his throat. That stupid fucking shirt. Didn't he know what size he was?

 

“I – uh, just wanted to apologize. This morning was a bit of a disaster.” Blue eyes found empty mask holes and Reaper almost flinched, taking a deep breath and puffing his chest up. He was not going to let this white boy tear apart everything he'd built as Reaper. Gabriel Reyes died in the explosion alongside the man in front of him. Nothing Reaper could do would change the way he'd seen Jack hit the ground with a sickening sound of too many bones breaking, the way he'd felt himself shatter on hitting the opposite wall. How he'd woken up and felt dead, felt his body disappearing into smoke. It was Jack's fault he was this way, trapped in the space between living and dead. He wasn't supposed to be down there when the bomb went off.

 

“I just thought you'd like some time with people, you know? You looked lonely watching Winston and Lena work. Then, uh, with 76 and Gabe said you left right after. So I got you those. You must be hungry, right?”

 

He offered a smile as an apology. This wasn't any Jack Morrison that Reaper knew. One of Jack's worst qualities had been his awful stubbornness. Even when he damn well knew he was in the wrong, he'd dig his heels in and stay in the boiling water until someone dragged him out kicking and screaming.

 

Reaper looked away. “Appreciated.”

 

“I wanted to make it up to you. Um. I'm grabbing some coffee before my meetings tomorrow, you could come along?”

 

What the fuck?

 

He met Jack's eyes again, and they were hopeful.

 

Something clamped down on his heart.

 

“Sure,” he forced out, mentally kicking himself. What the hell was he doing?

 

Jack's smile went from bright to blinding. “Thanks. Can I meet you in Winston's lab again tomorrow?”

 

Slight incline of the head. This was the worst decision he'd ever made, including dating Morrison in the first place.

 

Jack looked like he wanted to say more, but Reaper took a step away, holding up the strawberries as an excuse. He was not stretching this conversation out for any longer than needed. For a moment Jack looked confused at the gesture, then realization dawned on his face.

 

“Right,” he said, laughing awkwardly. “I'll, um.”

 

He motioned behind him, taking a step backwards before turning around and quickly walking the other direction.

 

Reaper took another look at the strawberries. Christ, what was he getting himself into?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pijo = posh/spoiled boy, preppy kid  
> lo siento mucho = i'm very sorry  
> cariño = darling/sweetheart


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter's second half was originally completely different, then the old soldiers comic came out and i made gabe Bitterererer

It was still raining the next morning when Jack came to find him, though it had seemed to have lessened overnight. Winston had fallen asleep over his desk, and Tracer hadn't been long after. Why they couldn't just sleep normal hours Reaper had no goddamn idea. Winston's internal clock, or lack of one, infuriated him to no end even now. Though he supposed he couldn't really justify scorning the monkey when he didn't sleep either; after all, a dead body didn't need sleep.

 

He'd taken a cold shower in one of the empty rooms in the early hours of the morning, and it had reminded him exactly why he didn't shower often in the first place. Years ago he would have enjoyed the heaviness the water gave him, how it made him almost human again. Now, it was just uncomfortable. The feeling of water running over his skin was unwelcome in the same way a wet cloth was unwelcome on a fire. It dampened him, made him feel waterlogged and clumsy. Restricted his smoking abilities. The first few years he'd desperately clung on to the weight his body once had, anything to scrape back remains of Gabriel Reyes, but as time passed and he grew used to the emptiness, the transparency of his step, he accepted it. It was useful, if anything.

 

“Reaper?” came the greeting, a sign Jack had arrived. “Hey.”

 

He was standing in the doorway, wearing a coat Reaper recognized as one of Reyes'. What was his problem. Why'd he have to be so damn cute?

 

“Hi,” he sighed, a plume of smoke expelling from his mouth. Just get it over with. Three more days, if he was lucky, then they were gone.

 

Jack made a motion with his head for them to start walking, and Reaper followed him out the door. It wasn't long before Jack started talking again. Always with the talking.

 

“Listen, thanks for letting me do this. I felt so bad about what happened yesterday, I didn't mean for you to end up meeting my friends like that. I know it's hard to believe, but they're all incredible people once you know them.”

 

Reaper couldn't stop himself. “Even Reyes?”

 

“Especially Reyes.” He shot Reaper a peculiar look. “He's just – overprotective.”

 

Ah. They'd fought. The strain in his voice was telling enough. Reyes evidently hadn't backed down from whatever issue the row had been about, too, as Reaper could see the tension in Jack's shoulders. Perhaps it had been a bad one.

 

That was why he'd been so buddy-buddy with Reaper. Why Reyes had been so clipped yesterday. He didn't remember any row with Jack that had lasted longer than a day at most, what the hell was this? Tracer had said they couldn't change anything.

 

“He doesn't trust me,” Reaper said, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

 

Jack sighed. “He doesn't trust any of you. But, yes, I think he likes you the least.”

 

What a surprise.

 

“Why?”

 

“He – thinks you're suspicious. Turning up here out of the blue and asking for Winston to help Tracer, who we haven't seen after her incident with the accelerator malfunctioning, and she's got this huge guy in a skull mask with her, and this poor man bleeding out - ”

 

The look on their faces had been priceless at seeing 76's sad old body.

 

“But Tracer's Overwatch.” Play to his story. Side with him. He'll open up more.

 

“Exactly, so I don't know why this is so hard for Gabe to see, I mean, we just haven't met you yet, right? How far in the future did you say you were?”

 

“Thirty years,” supplied Reaper, truthful for once.

 

“Exactly! More than enough time for a new generation of heroes. Though,” and he paused to smile for a moment, “we probably have met Soldier76 at this point.”

 

Something clicked in Reaper's brain. How could he not have noticed that before? 76 had obvious military training, it reflected in the way he fought. He just had to figure out which one of these people was going to become 76.

 

Reaper was suddenly very aware of the number of people he was passing. He wouldn't be able to figure out who 76 was unless he unmasked the old man himself. There were just too many possibilities. Too many soldiers angry with the destruction of Overwatch.

 

It took him a moment before he remembered to laugh at the joke Jack had made about 76. He had to at least sound like he was listening if he wanted this to work.

 

“I guess I'm not really supposed to ask you this, but who are you? 'Reaper' feels too formal. Do you have a name?”

 

Reaper folded his arms, an action becoming more and more familiar. They stepped out into the city, streets slowly waking up and their inhabitants marching off to jobs. “Reaper is fine.”

 

Another nervous laugh. “Right. Sorry.”

 

Thunder muttered distantly above them, the rain worsening again. Reaper looked up at the sky, unamused. He'd just finished being soggy and heavy.

 

“The coffee house is just down here. Let's go, before it starts pouring.” Jack said, conversational and brisk, pushing the hoodie up and quickening his step.

 

Stirring in the back of his mind. Summer rain emptying down from the skies on a visit to Jack's hometown. Rippling fields of corn and wheat, the smell of hay, trees, freshly mown grass and rain on green. Something so out of place to him, raised on concrete expanses and grey jungles, too many people packed into little squares that reached toward the stars. Pushing Jack down into the grass, hearing that giddy laugh below him and running his hands through hair like sunlight. There was rain on his back, Jack's shirt was sticking to him. Nights underneath the sky where he could almost see the stars, real ones, not the lights of houses on the other side of a city. Soft kisses, sleep-heavy words. Wondering what the hell he'd done to deserve someone like Jack, someone who looked at him like he was everything good in the world.

 

“Reaper!”

 

The bark made him jump. He was standing in the rain in the middle of the pavement as people walked around him. Jack was on the other side of the road, looking quite soaked already.

 

“What are you doing? Come on!”

 

He forced himself forward, rushing across the street and catching up with Jack.

 

“What was that?” came the question as they entered the little shop. Recall once again hit Reaper like a freight train. Jack's favorite place to be after a morning run or before a day had begun. Many a morning had been spent in one of the cafe's back seats with him, pulling Jack over the table to kiss him and watch the blush spread across his cheeks and the back of his neck.

 

He dragged himself away from unwanted memories. “I just - remembered something.”

 

For fuck's sake. He was letting himself go, letting Gabriel Reyes come back just to fawn over a dead man? He'd spent years convincing himself that there was nothing he could do to have Jack back – and that he didn't want Jack, either. If he hadn't started accusing Reaper of being a traitor that day, he wouldn't have been down there when the bomb exploded, and Reaper wouldn't be a goddamn cloud.

 

“What'd you remember?”

 

The response came out too fast for him to catch all of it. “That I'm hanging out with a c - ”

 

Jack's head turned just as Reaper managed to stop himself from finishing 'cabrón'.

 

“A what?”

 

He was lucky Jack had assumed he'd been intending a different word. The outburst had been sloppy, unmediated. Even if Jack and Reyes were fighting, there was no need to draw any attention to himself by speaking Reyes' language.

 

“Is it Halloween already?” quipped the barista, impatiently forcing the line forward. Reaper vaguely recognized her. “You're all dressed up, Gabriel.”

 

Reaper stiffened. What?

 

“Uh,” interjected Jack. “That's not Gabe. This is Reaper, he's with me today.”

 

The barista nodded. Her tag said Shelley. “Sorry, honey, I just assumed. You talk like that boy does. Usual today, Jack?”

 

Jack nodded and there was an awkward pause where Reaper realized he was supposed to be ordering too. He cleared his throat.

 

“Whatever he's having,” he said, glad the mask hid the embarrassment in his voice.

 

Shelley smiled. “Sit on down, boys, I'll be over in five.”

 

Jack led him to the back of the cafe, into the seat Reaper knew he took every time he got the chance. Reaper sat on the other side, water starting to sink into his coat. Jack pulled his jersey off. The shirt was wet, tighter than normal. Was the universe working against Reaper today?

 

“You can't just – throw that sort of language around, Reaper,” Jack sighed. “I don't know what it's like in the future, but it's still a pretty bad cuss here.”

 

Jack's inability to figure out the obvious had become his new best quality in Reaper's eyes. He'd been so close to slipping up, planting a seed of doubt in Jack's head, worrying him - -

 

Why was that bad? What was the problem with that?

 

Shelley had returned, two coffees in hand. Jack's favorite: unbearably sweet, too much vanilla. Reaper watched in disgust as he emptied another sachet of sugar into his drink. Jack's taste in coffee was one thing he had not missed.

 

“So, uh. What's it like in the future? How's Overwatch been holding up?” Jack flashed him another dizzying smile, trying to lighten conversation.

 

“Overwatch is fine,” he replied curtly.

 

“Me and Gabriel still leading the team into battle?”

 

Reaper hesitated. Tracer had said they couldn't change anything, that the outcome would remain the same, but something twinged at recounting Jack's death to his face.

 

“Huh.” He'd picked up on the moment of silence, piecing together the evidence at last. “What happened?”

 

“Reports of a bomb during a UN meeting. You and Reyes went to check it out. Got in a fight. The bomb blew up in front of you.”

 

Jack was quiet for a long moment, staring into the table. Reaper watched his expression, the way his mouth twitched downward. He was hurt. “Was Gabe alright?”

 

The twinge strengthened, pulling at his throat and closing it up. Why wasn't he being selfish? Where was the Jack Morrison that Reaper remembered? Where was the pettiness, the snapping and the victim card? Why the hell was he so concerned about Reyes, even before asking about himself?

 

“He died in the explosion.”

 

Hazy thoughts filled the silence Jack wouldn't. A fever dream; someone above him, bloody-faced, screaming and crying. _Wake up, Gabriel. Please wake up. I can't do this by myself!_ Concrete falling into itself, steel beams bending, fire crackling in mimic of laughter. Smoke. So much smoke, in his lungs and his eyes – Jack was smoke, too, but he was yelling for help, shielding Reaper with his body, somehow. Was he alive? Reaper couldn't remember. No, he'd died in the blast. There had been so much blood, smeared on rubble and streaked on the ground. Nobody could have lost that much and lived, or so Talon had told him.

 

But Reaper had. He'd lost more than just blood, too. And nobody had found Jack's body.

 

“Reaper? Are you okay?”

 

He refocused himself. Jack in front of him. His face wasn't bloodied, split down the middle, eyes weren't vacant and dull. He wasn't terrified, tears weren't mixing with the red on his face, nor was he out of breath, his voice shaking and cracking from screaming at Reaper - at Gabriel – to wake up.

 

Balling his hands into fists, he tried to ground himself in reality. Maybe Jack was alive somewhere. Something in him snarled, malicious. The part of him that relished in the destruction he caused so often.  _Finish the job._

 

"Fine," he spat, more hatred in his voice than needed. This wasn't a trip down memory lane any more. If Jack had lived, he'd left Reaper to die in the wreckage of the bomb. What a coward.

 

Tracer knew. Tracer had goddamn known this whole time. She'd probably been helping him along, providing ammunition, supplies to him. He'd choke the information out of her now and kill her as soon as they got back to their time. Cut off Jack's supplier before searching him out personally and -

 

His eyes caught a too-young Jack staring at him, evidently concerned. "You don't seem fine."

 

_Oh God, someone help us! Gabe – I can't see you, I can't see anything -_

 

Breath was evading him, there was smoke in his lungs and Jack's face was dulling, blackening, all he could see was unfocused eyes and spatters of red. Lights were shining above him, he could hear the echoes of gunfire and someone was screaming. Had bullets hit somebody? The shadow over the top of him was gone, every part of him wishing it would come back and keep him company in the limbo that the swirling masses of orange and white had trapped him in. Yes. That was definitely the sound of guns, and men yelling too loudly, the noises finally identifying in his sluggish head. 

 

"Listen, Reaper, maybe we should just go, you're pretty tense..."

 

Jack's grave had been a rendezvous point. What else could it have been? Visiting the empty tomb on his birthday, barely concealed, loitering around conspicuously. Like Tracer had been leading someone out into the open, pushing his guard down to suggest he join Overwatch again. There had been no supplies with her save her own pistol ammunition. Had he been set up? Perhaps he'd meant to be there, prey falling to Tracer and Jack as they danced around the enemy, retracing back into old steps. And who had been there with her but Soldier76, taking blows and twisting them back to Reaper, almost predictable in his force.

 

Something coiled in his belly. Jack had been alive under 76's visor and Reaper had been too far up his own ass to realize it. He should have seen it coming. Did Jack know who he was? Was that why he'd been so deadpan with Reaper that first day, claws halfway to Jack's bone yet responding to taunts like he was ordering takeout?

 

The hostile hiss that came out of his mouth surprised the unfamiliar Jack in front of him again. "Where's 76?"

 

"Uh, last I heard Gabe took him some food yesterday evening." He cleared his throat. Reaper was pushing metal through leather, his hands clenched tight enough to turn knuckles white, if he had any. "I haven't really - spoken to him since then."

 

Reaper stood without another word, deftly stepping out of the cafe and ignoring Jack's calls after him. As he walked his steps became lighter, the water on the pavement eventually remaining still with every step he took as he felt himself disintegrate, curling through the air despite the rain dampening him. The other Jack, the young one, the one that had too much faith in him burst outside the shop, calling his name, but Reaper was gone, searching for another target. He didn't know whether he would kiss or destroy his own Jack on confronting him, but he was about ready to find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cabrón = bastard/asshole


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meh, i was working on this chapter and the last one together, they're sort of in the same time period. i feel like releasing them closely is a good idea, before i start on the Real Pain. a consolation gift in advance, 2 chapters in 24 hours :')
> 
> haven't proofread this chapter as closely as i should have, pls tell me if there's any errors

A knock on the door woke Jack and there was an empty few seconds of silence before another knock, harder and more persistent, made him speak up.

 

“Just wait a damn second,” he grumbled, hand reaching out for the visor set carefully on the smear that was the drawers beside his bed. The door was already opening before he'd even finished clipping his mask on.

 

“You ever take that thing off?” Gabriel was standing at the other end of the room, closing the door behind him. There was a bowl of soup in his hands and a look on his face Jack couldn't read.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Bribing you.” He set the bowl down where the visor had been and sat at the end of the bed, watching Jack coolly. “You haven't been eating the last few days, and I have some questions.”

 

Well, at least he was honest.

 

“About what?” asked Jack, eyeing the food hungrily.

 

Gabe motioned for him to take it. “Your friend. Reaper.”

 

Pause.

 

“Reaper?”

 

He narrowed his eyes. “Don't. You know who I'm talking about.”

 

Jack looked away, shifting to get out of the bed.

 

“What about him?”

 

“He's got some peligroso claws on him, hasn't he?”

 

Gabe's eyes were on him, still nonchalant, but Jack could still feel himself tense. Besides Gabe's words, the room was dead silent.

 

“Sharp enough to cut through hard leather, I'd say. Maybe even more.”

 

Jack didn't reply. Oh, hell. This was gonna be bad.

 

“Maybe,” Gabe said, conversational tone dropping, “there's something you haven't told us.”

 

“Didn't want to spoil anything,” Jack said, a poor attempt at dodging the subject. He really didn't want to have another situation on his hands. Tracer had been through enough already. Though if they killed Reaper instead, Jack wasn't sure he'd have much of a problem with it.

 

“Who attacked you?” asked Gabe bluntly.

 

Jack focused on the ground. If he looked Gabe in the eye he knew he'd cave.

 

Gabe repeated himself, but there was thinly veiled aggression in his voice now, a threat. “Who attacked you.”

 

A longer silence. Gabe moved toward him, taking Jack's face in one hand and turning it roughly so Jack was forced to look into those eyes, damn beautiful eyes with long, thick lashes and deep brown irises.

 

“Let me rephrase that,” he growled, heat rushing to Jack's cheeks and the back of his neck, tipping his ears. “Did Reaper attack you?”

 

Christ. He could feel himself getting hard. He nodded once, hoping Gabe would get off him so he wouldn't end up embarrassing himself.

 

“So he's not with you. He's not Overwatch.”

 

Gabe's eyes were boring into his skull through the mask. He was scowling, eyes roving over Jack's mask for any sign of weakness. His visor was opaque, though, and the only clue Jack was struggling to keep his mouth shut would have been the crease in his brow.

 

“Puta, you better answer me soon - ”

 

Jack mumbled through the mask. “He's not Overwatch.”

 

He leaned in closer, fingers catching against the visor's clasps. Jack wanted to move back, move away, but Gabe was so close and his mind was too damn empty to think straight. He could see Gabe's freckles, the smaller scar on his cheek's slight curve upwards. He let go of a restricted breath; Gabe had been alive the last time Jack got to take in his face like this. It had been so long -

 

The hinges clicked on the mask and Jack forced his head back now, a final attempt to rectify the situation, but the mask was still in Gabe's hands and he'd only made it worse. Nothing was clear any more. He could see a vague blob which he knew was the bed below him; the rest of the room was just jumbles of white and cream. Gabe had become a swirl of grey and brown, his expression lost in translation to Jack's feeble eyes. The sound of the mask hitting the floor, however, was clear as day.

 

“ _Jack?”_

 

He looked back up at where he thought Gabe was. He was leaning closer, bridging the distance Jack had put between them, a hand coming to rest on his cheek. His thumb traced the raised pink scar over its path on Jack's face, and he closed his eyes, leaning into Gabe's hand, craving affection he didn't deserve.

 

“What happened to you?” Gabe muttered, his voice flat, shocked.

 

“Life, Gabriel.”

 

He barked a nervous laugh, a sign that this was getting to him. “What, you let some hijo de puta land a few hits?”

 

“Bomb went off.” His eyes opened again and found nothing but mangled colours. God, he wished he could see Gabe's face, really see it. “Didn't get out in time.”

 

The feelings of fear, of guilt, of self-loathing welled in his chest. He couldn't save Gabe, he'd let him die in the bomb's wreckage. If Jack had just taken him, hadn't stood over him and cried, if he'd taken action like Gabe would have done in his place -

 

“Christ, Gabe - ” he started, voice catching on grief he'd told himself was wasted years ago. His shoulders hunched up, pulling away from the ghost in front of him, but Gabe's hands followed and Jack couldn't handle it. They sneaked up under his jacket, settling around his waist. Gabe was so close to him, he didn't deserve this, the last time he'd been this close to Gabriel he had been dying. “I couldn't – I should've - ”

 

One of Gabe's hands moved, cradling his cheek again. It guided him, pulled him closer so that Jack could feel breath on his scarred lips. He could almost make out facial features this close. Gabe pressed his lips to Jack's, something both forgotten and so familiar.

 

Jack paused, lost in the moment and a thousand memories just like it. Gabe pulled away.

 

“Lo siento – I just thought - ”

 

He hooked his fingers underneath Gabe's massive jacket hood and pulled him back into a kiss; he'd craved this for so long, missed it, wanted it back over and over through the years, telling himself it was over. He'd abandoned Gabe to die, he deserved the emptiness, it was his fault he'd been alone for thirty goddamn years -

 

Gabe was biting Jack's lip and he was sure that if he could see the expression Gabe was making it'd be that shit-eating grin, baring teeth and eyebrows raised and a sparkle in those eyes. He could barely stop himself. It was so easy, so familiar, so natural, and damn if he didn't want it. Pushing Gabe back into the bed, roughly biting along his jaw and down his neck. He tasted blood.

 

“So angry,” Gabe was purring, hands slipping down past Jack's waist. “What happened to you, all those years?”

 

“Shut up,” Jack growled, but the words gave him pause. This was wish fulfillment. Gabe was dead. Doing this was useless – wrong, even. When he went back to his own time he would still be a disgrace to Overwatch, Gabe would still be dead, and Reaper would still probably kill him.

 

He rolled off Gabe, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. He wasn't going to do this to Gabe, young and still bright, happiness in his rumbly voice. “Pass me the visor.”

 

“Did I say something - ?”

 

“Just give me the damn mask, Gabriel.”

 

He felt the bed move as Gabe leaned down to get it. Something poked into his back and he reached behind him to get it, taking the mask and reattaching it. Gabe was back in focus again, pouting.

 

“Why do you need that thing? I know it's you, Jack.” He snickered. “Even if you are an old man underneath it.”

 

The high was wearing off. The adrenaline rush that had pushed him forward was pulling him down. He'd let Gabe die alone and pained. If their places had been switched, Gabriel would have died for him in that building. Why couldn't Jack have done the same for him?

 

After all those years, he never thought he'd be rejecting a chance to have Gabriel back. But it wasn't right, wasn't his Gabe. He didn't understand why this meant so much, why it was too hard.

 

“I can't see without it.”

 

He picked up the cold soup from the bedside table and set it on the bench, meaning to find something to heat it up with. Gabe was silent for a long moment.

 

“You're blind.”

 

Jack flinched, staring into the sink he knew was grey, yet only seeing red. “No. I can see colors.” He could still – sort of tell what was happening around him.

 

“When'd you lose it?” Gabe's voice was so expressionless. Why did Jack always have to fuck it up, always give him the wrong idea? He'd thought it was his fault Jack had stopped.

 

Hands closed over the sink's metal lip, and he could feel it bend under his grasp. “I told you. Bomb – at the UN.”

 

The same day he'd lost everything else. His faith, his team, and his life. What would Gabe, his Gabe have told him? Sour memories resurfaced, ones he'd ignored in favor of sunny days and music from the 2010s.

 

_There's not much left of us anyway._

 

Silence was unbearable. It had been hard at the end, the way Gabriel would avoid him for days, justifying it with a story about training or saving lives. He'd lost interest in Jack, weeks or months prior. Jack was dull and empty without his partner but Gabe was fine working alone, happy to come back only when he needed the company, or cash and a place to hide. Jack knew they were gone in all but title; his heart aching when he saw Gabe in training sessions with the Blackwatch kids or outside having a smoke, always alone, always tense and bitter. He'd never confronted Gabe about the way they were falling apart. He already knew the answer, knew it would be a flat “I don't love you any more”, void of the affection Jack still held onto. So he'd waited. Never said anything, hoped Gabe would come back.

 

When he did, though, he knew it was wrong. Something in him ached, knew it wouldn't last when hands trailed down his back and Spanish whispered into his ear. It was routine. What had once been common was now a luxury. And he always woke up to an empty bed afterward, not even so much as a note to explain where Gabe had gone.

 

It had been over a long time before the bomb, hadn't it? Jack had just pretended it was fine. Always too much of a coward to accept things as they were and move on.

 

He heard Gabriel sigh. “I'm going back to training. Enjoy the food, veijo.”

 

Their shoulders brushed as Gabe left without another word. The room was quiet, and Jack looked down at the soup. His stomach growled; there was a familiar heaviness settling down in his chest. He never seemed to be quite able to do things right, did he?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peligroso = dangerous  
> puta = bitch  
> hijo de puta = son of a bitch  
> lo siento = i'm sorry  
> veijo = old man


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jacks favorite film is winter soldier and the reason gabe stopped talking to him was probably that gabe wanted to watch season 63 of supernatural rather than see the gwenpool movie

Reaper was materializing again as he walked down the hall; his footsteps heavier than he would have liked but the rain and his rush wouldn't let them soften. Which of these was 76's room? Talking echoed behind him, irrelevant conversations from closed doors. His breathing was quickening, anticipating the unknown. Jack was alive. He was here, this whole time – had been talking to him, to a Reyes who hadn't figured out just how much Jack would ruin his life.

 

The muted sound of metal hitting metal caught his ear. He slowed, hearing strained grunts and then speech, something he recognized, an old film and one of Jack's favorites. He stopped, hearing the swell of music and the groan of an airship falling from the sky.

 

“ _You've known me your whole life.”_

 

A grunt, the sound of a punch, and another rumble. It could be a coincidence, but there were too many matching factors. Jack's favorite film, sounding from down a hall where Reaper knew he waited, idle. He turned, slowly making his way back to the source of the noise. What a sap. Jack had insisted they watch this movie too many times for Reaper to count.

 

His hand closed around the doorknob before stepping back and letting himself go; feeling himself dissolve and slip under the door instead. Jack was standing with hands in the sink, visor on but the jacket spread carelessly over the bed. His taste in shirts hadn't changed, still disgustingly tight, head turned toward the screen on the opposite wall. The footage was so old it wasn't even fully 3D, confined to the pixels on the glass.

 

The claws solidified first and he used the weight to seize Jack's shoulder and yank him back, slamming him into the opposite wall and shattering the television, shining slices of glass spreading over the floor and crunching under Reaper's boots as he closed the distance between them, hands closing around Jack's throat.

 

“So,” he snarled, hoping to instill fear in Jack. “You're still alive.”

 

He didn't even flinch. “The only person who wants to kill me here is you, and I was under the impression we were truced 'till we got back.”

 

“Back to where? Your memorial, Morrison?”

 

He could feel the muscles in Jack's neck jump under his hands. His voice was level when he spoke, though, and it angered Reaper.

 

“So Talon knows too? Or did you work it out all by yourself?”

 

“I don't need Talon to notice the obvious.”

 

“Congratulations.” Still so dull, bored almost. “Who are you, again?”

 

Frustrated, Reaper tightened his fingers and choked a gasp out of Jack. “You can't figure it out?”

 

Frankly, he'd imagined this going differently. Maybe a lot more desperation and heartbreak from Jack, pleading with Reaper to come back to him. Or at least Jack fighting back, rather than acting as if he'd pushed in front of the old man in a queue. This was just disappointing. Anticlimactic.

 

“You're wearing a mask,” Jack said, as flatly as he could manage with his breath choked out of him.

 

“Then take it off,” he hissed in response, smog expelling from his mouth on the hard _'t'_ like a smoker after a hit.

 

Hands reached for Reaper and he almost flinched away, felt his grip loosening on Jack's throat. How was he so calm, on the brink of death like this? Didn't he feel at all threatened? Was Reaper not intimidating?

 

The mask was sliding back over his face, fresh air filling his nostrils for the first time since they'd arrived. He watched Jack's face, resolutely, as if there wasn't a sick feeling in the back of his throat and his stomach wasn't clenching up. All he could see was those eyebrows, but they showed his guard falling well enough.

 

Jack choked on a noise halfway between a sob and a dead name. It took a few tries, but he finally managed to finish his words.

 

“Gabriel,” he breathed. “You're – you're alive.”

 

No. This wasn't living. “Always were an optimist, weren't you?”

 

“Fuck, Gabe - ”

 

He slid Jack up the wall, tightening his grip again, leaning in so he was close enough to feel choked breath on his face. Jack coughed, evidently catching some of Reaper's dead cells. “Don't. You can't apologize for this.”

 

His eyebrows were knotted up, and Reaper felt sick. He'd memorized Jack's face long ago, yet only remembered his forehead crinkling like that when he'd been physically hurt. The time that omnic squadron had caught him, cutting deep lines into his back and asking where Overwatch was, where his Gabe was, but he hadn't cracked. He'd stayed strong until Gabriel had rescued him and -

 

“I know.”

 

Jack's voice was dull again, but not empty; both devoid and overflowing with emotion. Something in Reaper's chest was pushing down on him, suffocating. Jack was almost limp save for what Reaper could see of his face, that pained expression only getting worse. Why wasn't he fighting back, justifying himself with the moral high ground of saving his own life, the life of Overwatch's Strike Commander over the leader of Blackwatch? Did he have a death wish?

 

His hand raised and Reaper leaned back slightly, expecting him to push back on the vice grip around his throat. Jack left it to rest on his forearm, fingers divided in the space between the spikes on his plating.

 

“I should have stayed. Should have died for you that day.” He coughed again, smoke in his lungs. “You would have for me.”

 

Guilt coiled in Reaper's gut for the first time in years, knowing full well he wouldn't have. He threw Jack again, unable to spit back a sufficient response, hearing a nasty crunching sound as Jack's back hit the metal of the sink. Gabriel Reyes had died in the fire that should have killed the man in front of him. Reaper had taken his place.

 

For once, repeating it to himself wasn't making it more convincing. Violence didn't seem to be helping either. He still felt sick, heavy, only now he was feeling guilty too.

 

He stood above Jack, watching him struggle to make it to all fours. Was his spine broken? Something in Reaper hoped not. His hands were slipping out from underneath him every time he tried to pull himself up. He was coughing, groaning, too much of Reaper's toxic breath down his throat. Feelings he thought he'd never experience again resurfaced in his heart, forced up by the part of him that hated himself for doing this to Jack, shreds of Gabriel Reyes that had survived the bomb.

 

“Do it, then,” Jack said, finally able to stabilize on his elbows, forearms braced against the floor and hands balled into fists. His breath was ragged, punctuated with sounds of pain that tensed Reaper's shoulders, and his voice was back to that dullness. Betrayed. Quiet. “Finish it.”

 

His foot raised over Jack's head, pushing him back down with a pitiful noise. It would be so easy. Just a little extra weight. He took a long breath, convincing himself that he should, that he needed to finish what he started. Breathing below him was slowing, readying itself for its eventual stop.

 

It was in time with his now. Hands were across his back. Blush across pale cheeks and nervous laughter, the sun carding through golden hair and a smile brighter than the sky. Summer rain and shirts that were too tight around his waist or his chest or even both, Jack never owned anything the right size. Resting together on top of buildings, cool wind and city lights winking at them. Jumpers that smelled of him, grass and rain and earth and memories that he'd pushed away so Gabriel wouldn't feel guilty pushing Jack away too.

 

Who was he kidding. He couldn't kill Jack.

 

He moved his foot, stepping away. Silence barely had a moment to set in before he heard Jack's stuttering laugh, choppy from his injuries. There was a hard edge to it too, far more bitter than Reaper remembered.

 

“What?” he snapped.

 

“You're pouting,” Jack replied, something unrecognizable in his voice. Giddiness? Had he pushed down on Jack's head too hard, already broken something?

 

“I could still kill you,” came the warning, covering the feeling of tears in the back of his throat with aggression.

 

“But you won't.”

 

Falling to pieces over a legally dead man. What a way to go. He huffed his breath out, a poor imitation of what once could have been a laugh. “No.”

 

He bent down, squatting back on his haunches to reach Jack on the floor. Taking him in, finally. The old, heavy shoulders and heaving breath, that blondness completely lost to age. The visor still stubbornly covered Jack's face and Reaper hooked a claw on the mask's clasp, forcing the hinges apart. The way they hung limply as it came off his face gave Reaper the feeling that he may have just broken it.

 

As he pulled it away from Jack's face the first thing he noticed was how – unfocused his eyes were. It took Jack a long second to look at him, and there was no eye contact; Jack seemed to just be looking in Reaper's vague area. Blood had leaked from his nose under the mask but with nowhere else to go it had just smeared over his lip. That borderline obsessively clean-shaven jaw was gone, a day or two's stubble growing in a passive grey around his surprisingly few wrinkles. Two neat pink scars trailed his face, leaving most of it unscathed. Only fucking Morrison could survive an explosion with nothing but a few measly cuts.

 

Was that footsteps? Reaper blinked. Muffled speaking from down the hall?

 

“Can you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

There was a harsh sound of hard metal on harder metal and the door swung open, its lock hanging out of the fitting. Yelling that Reaper wasn't thinking quickly enough to hear properly as he stood, defensive, catching only “loud noise” and “you alright” before spinning around to meet a challenge and stopping inches away from his own face.

 

 Fuck.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update, school has started back up again and this chapter was very difficult to write! my usual translator is absent at the moment so please tell me if the spanish is iffy :v

For a few seconds, nothing happened; brains worked quickly to process the situation in front of them.

 

Reaper was the first to snap back to reality with a jab to Reyes' gut. He dodged Reyes' lunge and anticipated his swing back around, turning to find nothing; Reaper had already smoked behind him, kicking him in the small of the back. His knees caught on the bed and he fell over onto the mattress.

 

“Reaper? What - ?”

 

He turned to Jack first, still on the floor, but the words hadn't been his. Standing in the doorway was the other Jack, the young Jack whose eyes were focused and sharp, who wasn't tired and bitter. This was a trainwreck. The walls were dented, glass was spread across the floor, he and Jack had clearly been in a fight and now he was attacking Reyes too? They certainly weren't doing much for Tracer's “We're future Overwatch agents” story.

 

Jack was trying to reattach his visor before the memory in the doorway noticed him, apparently hoping to partially rectify the situation. It wasn't working, as far as Reaper could see. He'd definitely broken the clasps.

 

He wanted so badly to say “This isn't what it looks like,” but, really, it was exactly what it looked like. He'd tried to kill Jack and ruined the room around him doing so. He'd screwed up, and pretty badly too.

 

The click of a handgun safety behind him. Fuck! He'd hesitated for too long and now he'd lost the upper hand. He shot another glance at Jack, still pushing himself up from the floor. Though his eyes remained unfocused, he was sending Reaper a warning glance, jaw set and mouth slightly downturned. _Don't fight,_ it said. _It's not worth it._

 

Reaper raised his hands begrudgingly. His heart was sinking at the younger Jack's expression, a perfect combination of disappointment, pity and sadness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He and Jack were promptly forced down to the holding cells. Many a hostage to different Blackwatch operations had been interrogated down here, killed in these rooms. Or – would be killed. It hadn't happened here yet.

 

Jack was pulled away down a different hallway, likely to be patched up again. Reaper was left in a room that was too small, walls were too close. It was featureless, the plain whiteness driving him insane wondering what they would do to him, to Jack. If Reyes would interrogate him with the harsh threats he remembered using to force information out of suspects. 

 

Loud, harsh footsteps, the same rhythm as before.

 

The door opened, Reyes scowling pointedly at him. He was still holding that handgun. A few shots in close range like this would do some damage.

 

“Where's Jack?” he asked Reyes, keeping his face blank.

 

The response was immediate and inflammatory. “Which one? Yours, or the one you've been coming on to?”

 

He was pissed. Play to it, aggravate him. Imitate Jack's special talent of escalating the situation.

 

“Just filling in for you.” Faux pleasantry. Reyes' face visibly darkened.

 

“Chingate.”

 

Reaper so wanted to smirk, used to his facial expressions hidden beneath the mask. No comeback, apparently. He and Jack's spat must still be a sensitive topic.

 

Reyes shifted the gun in his hands, breaking eye contact with Reaper. It seemed an innocent enough action, but the intention was clear. Intimidation. Reaper had used the same technique numerous times, especially with obnoxious businessmen claiming they could call their lawyers while he was the commanding officer of Blackwatch. The self-righteousness of the upper class was tiring, though a casual show of weaponry would often do more than enough to silence any whining. His missions had always operated outside of the law. It didn't matter if he shot a few knees, waterboarded a few prisoners. Overwatch would turn a blind eye so long as he got the information they needed. It had become a way to vent towards the end. Many of their later interviewees barely made it out alive, if at all. Really, turning a gun over in his hands was one of the tamest things he could do.

 

McCree had picked up on the action subconsciously, he recalled, and started doing it out of habit, fiddling with Peacekeeper during briefings or training. Looking back, he saw a lot of himself in McCree. The kid must have followed him around like a lost puppy. What a shitty role model he'd been.

 

“You were trying to kill Jack.” A statement, not a question.

 

Reyes had figured something out, besides the slightly troubling fact that he already knew who 76 had been underneath the mask. Had he figured it out before Reaper, despite only knowing him for four, five days? Maybe he was getting slower with age. God, he hoped not. He didn't exactly strive to be an ambling old man with grey hair and arthritis.

 

“Yes.” At one point during the fight, he had wanted to kill Jack, thought he could bring himself to do it.

 

Reyes crossed his arms.

 

“You're not with Overwatch.”

 

There it was. Grand detective work.

 

“No.”

 

Another subtle roll of the gun in his hands. “I'd sure love more than one syllable for an answer, amigo.”

 

“No, _pendejo,_ ” he rectified, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

 

Direct eye contact again, a nasty glare which would have intimidated anyone but Reaper. He refused to look away, mirroring the dirty look.

 

Reyes took a step toward him, narrowing his eyes. “You're not in the place to bitch,” he snapped. “Drop the attitude.”

 

“Stop me,” Reaper spat back. “Or are you busy sulking about Jack?”

 

Reyes jumped for him, hands attempting to close around his neck, but Reaper was prepared, knew the punches he'd throw. He'd lived the tense of the shoulder muscles, the slight breath out as a fist hit its mark. The potshots about Jack had been worth it. If he could knock Reyes out he could escape, find Tracer and convince her to make up another story. Some other way to get him and Jack out of trouble.

 

He caught Reyes' collar and pulled him downwards, exposing his back for a sharp elbow to come down on it, sending him into the floor. Reyes rolled and put three shots in his leg. That fucking handgun! Reaper crumpled, falling to his knees and biting down a yell. He hadn't been expecting the shots, and while they couldn't do any serious damage to a partially corporeal being it would be a moment before he could regain his senses.

 

Reyes was back on his feet, huffing. His hands were shaking slightly, the gun pointed at Reaper's head uncertainly. His cells shivered, loosening, trying to displace the bullets. Halfway to recovery already. Just a few more moments.

 

“Don't move.”

 

Why was he so lightheaded? He coughed, thick near-black smoke expelling from his mouth.

 

“What the fuck happened to you? What happened to Jack?”

 

The cough slowly turned to bitter laughter, a sick mixture of regret and pride. “I did.”

 

Reyes faltered. The bullets were shifting in his leg. A couple more seconds.

 

“What did you do?”

 

He opened his mouth to respond but the door opened before he could goad Reyes again. Jack. Those wide blue eyes that still _focused,_ why wasn't his Jack focusing on what he saw?

 

“I heard gunshots and came as quickly as I can,” he said, looking from Reaper to Reyes. “What's happened?”

 

“Pinche puta trying to stir up trouble.”

 

“Take a break. Come on.”

 

He stepped aside so that Reyes could leave the room. Reaper could still hear their talk as the door closed behind them.

 

“What was he saying?”

 

“The bomb you mentioned, that 76 was saying blinded him... you think he could've set it?”

 

There was a short silence. Reaper listened, hearing the faint sound of breathing. Blinded? Jack was blind? That explained why his eyes hadn't been focusing. The golden boy hadn't made it out so unscathed after all. The thought satisfied him slightly. Jack may not have been undead in the same way Reaper was, but the loss of maybe the most important sense of all would perhaps tilt Reaper's mental scales of their comparative hardships nearer to equal.

 

“No,” said the Jack on the other side of the door uncertainly. “You wouldn't.”

 

“Not now, no. But we don't know what's gonna happen.”

 

Another silence. Jack was considering the information, losing faith in Reaper the same way his Jack had.

 

“Did you know?”

 

“Not about Reaper.”

 

“You knew about 76? And you didn't tell me?”

 

“I found out yesterday, estupido.” Though the word was an insult, Reyes' voice was affectionate when he spoke. 

 

A long sigh he thought was from Reyes until he heard Jack speak.

 

“Guess you were right not trusting them.”

 

An agreeing sound. “But they are from the future. You were right too.”

 

“What happened to us, Gabe?”

 

Reaper waited for an answer, another pause which he assumed held a pained gaze. “I don't know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chingate = fuck you  
> amigo = friend  
> pendejo = idiot  
> estupido = stupid  
> pinche puta = fucking bitch


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slowly making our way to the end.... slowly.....

The rooms had been quiet save for the muttering of prisoners in other cells since he got here. Angela had been and gone, and given how unsurprised she looked on seeing Jack, he suspected she'd unmasked him during his first episode with Reaper.

 

Where was Gabriel now? They'd been separated before Jack was directed into the little room, almost a parody of his first day here. It couldn't be long till they went back. He wondered if Tracer knew what had happened to them. Maybe she'd jumped, she'd already gone, and they'd be stuck here forever. He certainly wouldn't see the reassembly of Overwatch if that was the case. Maybe that was a good thing. He'd only be a disappointment to Jack Morrison's legacy when he came back, some sad old man who could barely even see what was in front of him.

 

He heard a gunshot and the quiet talking stopped, leaving Jack with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. Reaper was Gabriel. He'd tried to kill Jack, at least four times now. He was clearly not interested in Jack any more. So why spare his life?

 

He'd been ruthless from the beginning. Jack's numerous wounds demonstrated that well enough. The only explanation Jack could think of was that he hadn't known, he hadn't realized that Jack and Soldier76 were the same person. He must have been the only person left in the damn world to have not figured it out. Gabe's voice echoed in his head, hostile and distorted under the mask.

 

“ _Not eating? Thought you would have been excited to play happy family.”_

 

Happy family. Because he was stuck in the past with people who didn't know yet that he'd let them down. Happy to pretend everything was okay just so he could taste what it was like to be a hero again. Maybe Gabe had figured it out, held it in as long as he could before confronting Jack about it. He could have known this whole time, Jack left in the dark like a child after bedtime.

 

Talk was slowly picking up again beyond his walls, chatter of prisoners which he idly hoped hadn't been wrongfully locked away. Jack would have listened to their words if the door to his own room hadn't opened and he didn't watch a fading blur of his own memory step inside.

 

“So,” sighed his double.

 

“So,” Jack parroted back.

 

“Reaper said you died.”

 

“And you really trusted him.” A flat statement, no lilt at the end to signify an open question. Why in God's name would you look someone in the eye and tell them how they died? Gabriel could certainly be dumb sometimes.

 

“What happened, then?”

 

He watched the vague silhouette cross the room and settle on the side of the bed, feeling the weight as his younger – Morrison – sat down. This was so surreal.

 

“I didn't die.”

 

He wasn't going to give anything away, if he could help it; there was no point putting himself through pain he already knew he'd experience. He remembered those endless lonely nights all too well to force them on someone for longer than needed. Wondering what he'd done. Hoping Gabe would come back. And he had. Kind of.

 

Jack was already having trouble keeping it together before, and damn if this wasn't helping at all. Seeing Gabe's face, his Gabe, something he thought had been lost by his own mistakes. Not all of him had escaped the bomb alive, though; something in both of them died in that explosion. Jack had lost his sight, his faith. Gabriel had lost himself. Through the visor he could only see it tinted in pinks and reds but it had been enough. His eyes had been reddened, dulled and empty, and with each breath a cloud of that foul smoke expelled from his mouth. The acrid smells of angry flames mixed with decomposition that Jack realized now came from Gabe himself, his insides generating too much, trying to expel it through any orifice.

 

On removing the visor Jack could see that his skin had turned a sickly grey-brown, though in some places it was patched like an old quilt with darker shades, hues that could have been alive recently. Particularly around his scars, the newer skin had appeared like dye into water, forming strange patterns across his cheekbone and changing the singular red the visor used to represent his skin into a pallet. With his poor vision Jack couldn't tell if Gabriel had greyed as much as he had but he could see how strangely the hairs on his face were set, shaved closely yet sparse and patched. It was certainly not the thick curls he'd hid beneath his beanies or his old neatly constructed beard. Jack made a mental note to ask why he had cut his hair that way the next time he saw Gabe. If he saw Gabe again after this.

 

“So what was Reaper trying to do?”

 

The words jerked him back to reality, if this could be considered a reality. He shrugged noncommittally, hearing the door move again and revealing what he assumed was the younger Gabe. They must not have been able to get anything out of his Gabriel. Pride warmed his heart before the shadow in the doorway spoke.

 

“Did he blind you?”

 

Jack hesitated.

 

“No.”

 

Technically, he hadn't. It had been the blast. Which Gabe had set up. Baited him for, made sure he was at ground zero to experience.

 

“Where's my visor?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

 

“Still in your room, as far as I know,” Morrison replied. “How'd you lose your sight?”

 

“Explosion.” Avoid the subject. It was the only thing he could do.

 

“Was I there?” came Gabe's voice. Gentle, quiet, like he was trying to comfort a spooked animal. Jack watched the silhouette move closer, leaning against the wall closest to him.

 

His Gabe was scarred for the rest of his life. He'd said something about being alive, something about optimism. What the hell had happened? He'd been dead that day – Jack had heard his breathing slow, knew that by leaving he was letting debris crush his former lover's body.

 

“Jack. Jack, hey.”

 

It was coming down on him, how awful that must have been. Leaving when Gabe needed him most. It was perhaps worse that he hadn't died. At least then Gabe wouldn't have spent all that time alone, the seconds of desperation that were hard enough for Jack when he could move around and get away, how bad would it be stuck, in pain, screaming but nobody would come, even the closest to you abandoning you -

 

“Jack!”

 

He looked up. Colors were dancing above him. There was a hand on his shoulder. He was dizzy.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Where's Gabriel?” he blurted.

 

There was a silence, too long. Had they shot him? Had the gunshot he'd heard ripped through Gabriel's skull, taken him away just as Jack had finally got him back?

 

“Tell us what happened.”

 

Could he smell gunpowder or was he imagining it? No. Gabe used to smell like gunpowder, before he reeked of death and anger and all the regret that Jack felt. Why hadn't he stayed? Gabe had needed him. He'd lost Gabriel, lost everything.

 

Jack repeated himself. “Did you shoot him?”

 

Maybe Jack _was_ imagining it. Did he really smell like gunpowder? Oh, God. He couldn't remember what Gabe smelled like, before all of this. He was getting old, and getting old meant making more mistakes, meant he was more likely to die on the battlefield because he wasn't quick enough.

 

“I – may have grazed him. He attacked me - ”

 

Anxiety, nerves, trying to hide something, sugarcoat it to make him feel better. Mission reports from Blackwatch had been the same. He'd ignored it, watched Gabriel spiral into his own madness and sat by, idle. Why was he always left out of the loop? Always last to know. Jack's brain was moving too fast for him to keep up with.

 

“Just tell us what happened.” Morrison again. Like his own voice on a playback. “We can - ”

 

“Stop it, can you?”

 

The hand on his shoulder loosened as the shadow in front of him straightened. Someone was in the doorway, and by the sounds of it, Tracer had come to his rescue.

 

Gabriel's voice, vaguely tied to the dark blob in front of him, confirmed his suspicions. “Tracer.”

 

“Cheers, love,” she said, bemused. “What happened here?”

 

“We found Reaper trying to kill Soldier76. Why didn't you say anything about this?”

 

“Not sure it's relevant.” Her voice was light, but there was strain underneath, worrying tones. Her shape moved into view and Jack was glad he couldn't see the disappointment in her eyes; the drop in her voice was enough.

 

Morrison's colors moved from the bed and Jack felt the additional weight disappear from the mattress. “We can change this. Stop - this from happening.”

 

Tracer laughed, but there was a bitter edge to it. “If something wants to happen, it'll happen. You can't change that.”

 

A silence followed her words, confusion in the air.

 

“Look,” she said, “if I knew about that bomb, do you really think I wouldn't go back and change it?”

 

“You didn't,” Jack interjected, pushing himself further up in his seat. He remembered that well enough. He and Gabriel had been the only ones in the room when the bomb went off, tucked away in the building's deepest foundations.

 

“I did,” Tracer replied, and her voice was unstable. “I tried telling you not to go, tried going with you and taking the bomb out myself, tried to warn you. I've seen you go so many times, Jack. Every time it does bollock all. One of you still dies, one of you still - ”

 

She choked on her words. The quiet was pressing now, a contrast to Tracer's raising voice.

 

“Lena - ”

 

“Every time I go, things are different when I come back,” she continued, words shaking from years of suppressed grief. “But it's still the same. I can't change it.”

 

Her words earlier in the week had been from personal experience. How many times had she intervened? How many times had she gone back and stopped herself from doing so, realized Jack and Gabe's broken minds was the best course for history to take?

 

Tracer cleared her throat and her figure shifted.

 

“The accelerator's repaired.”

 

“When are you leaving?” came Gabe's question. The words seemed awkward, disjointed. Like he was processing her words, working the pieces of the puzzle into place. Realizing he was the one who'd later pull it all apart.

 

Jack watched the blur shrug its shoulders. She was trying to play off her outburst like it was nothing. To be fair, Jack would have done the same thing in her place.

 

“How about tomorrow morning?” Morrison's voice was the softest now. “Get some rest, Lena. You deserve it.”

 

She nodded, and Morrison followed her out the door. Jack could hear muffled talking as they slowly moved out of earshot. Something about a cup of tea and a comforter.

 

He heard Gabe sigh. “Sorry.”

 

“You haven't done anything.”

 

“But I will.”

 

He shrugged, masking the tightness in his chest and the back of his throat closing up. “You heard Tracer. Can't change it.”

 

Jack felt a touch on his shoulder, what might have been comforting to him once upon a time. Something dropped in his lap. He looked down to find his visor, cracked on one side and claspless but still largely intact. When he looked up, Gabe was in the doorway, watching Jack hold the visor up to his face and bring the world into focus. His words stayed in the room with Jack as he left, pulling his hood over his head and shoving his hands into his pockets.

 

“Don't mean I can't be sorry.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the long wait you guys get a long chapter :v

It was again the early hours of the morning when Jack got up, a repeat of his first few evenings spent here. He hoped to find some food and perhaps have a shower, avoiding awkward questions from people who wanted to know what the future held. More specifically, his own questions. Morrison had been back into his room twice, both times asking about what had happened with Reaper. He'd heard a few voices from the hall, but none had come in.

 

The same words in different places.

 

“What happened? What did Reaper do? What happened to you and Reaper?”

 

It was tiring for both of them. He understood the concern, would have felt it himself, before. Now, most emotions were just too hard. Besides hunger, loneliness and exhaustion, he really hadn't been feeling much since most of his life and legacy had been blown to pieces.

 

But then, with Reaper being Gabriel... Jack didn't know what he felt any more. He wanted to pity Gabriel, almost, but he remembered just how much Gabriel hated pity. Discussions on family life, on their childhoods had been enough to affirm that. He could barely imagine how difficult it would have been for Gabriel, stuck alone and in pain while gunfire snapped above him and walls crumbled on top of him. What had he become?

 

Jack found himself asking the same questions Morrison had earlier. He didn't know the answers. Whatever had happened to him, whatever part of Gabriel still remained underneath that mask, it wasn't exactly pretty. Tracer didn't realize how much of the Jack she'd known had died that day; she was going to drag him back to Overwatch and make him lead. Oh God, he couldn't lead again. The last time he'd been put in charge he'd destroyed everything. He'd just let it happen again. Lose someone else, kill them or worse.

 

The evening was cool, not as damp as the days had been. If he was going to reject Overwatch and continue his vengeance mission against its conspirators he'd have to stock up before they returned to the future. Eat enough to be considered a meal and properly clean himself. With real soap.

 

It had been so long since he'd had a shower that he jumped when the water hit his skin. The steam seeped into his bones and loosened his muscles, almost the opposite of Gabriel's thick smog. For a long moment, he simply stood in the spray of water, letting it run over him and losing the world around him for a while. He didn't want to go back to damp alleys and empty bellies. Having nothing but the clothes on his back and a gun in his hands.

 

Light breath on his back, a growl in his ear. “Hola, pendejo.”

 

There was a moment of guilty confusion where Jack didn't know whether his Gabriel or the Gabe from the past was behind him before the voice spoke again.

 

“You got out?”

 

His Gabriel. Reaper.

 

“They didn't lock my door.”

 

He could definitely feel fingertips now. “So you take a shower.”

 

“Might not see one when I go back,” he mumbled, trying to justify himself. “Not for a while, anyway.”

 

Gabriel was slowly turning him around. Was this manipulation? Jack had to keep reminding himself that Gabe worked with Talon. Just one more thing he could use against Jack.

 

“You're joining Overwatch again,” said Gabe, disgust in his voice.

 

“I'm not,” Jack interjected quickly.

 

Cool silence. “Sure you're not.”

 

As he was turned around, he looked at what he assumed was Gabe's face, blurred swirls of smoke leaving his mouth with every breath. He reached out, running his thumb over cheekbones and under Gabe's eye.

 

He flinched away. “Don't,” came the warning.

 

Jack moved closer. He could smell Gabe's breath now, completely different to what he remembered. Dead things and fire.

 

“Jack - ”

 

“I know,” Jack said. He didn't know.

 

“I set that bomb, Jack,”

 

Oh. He knew that. “Yeah.”

 

“I tried to kill you.”

 

“I know.”

 

He tried a different approach. “You're blind.”

 

“No I'm not,” Jack said, hoping he was meeting Gabe's eyes. He could still see, why didn't anyone believe him?

 

Gabe rumbled, a sound in his chest that could have been a laugh. That malicious sound that Jack had heard so much, hatred replaced with an uneasy familiarity. His hand was cold as it came to push Jack's head just a little further upwards.

 

“Now you're looking at me,” he said, bitterness in his voice.

 

A silence between them. Jack's hand ran over a scar, the new skin around it almost warm in the running water.

 

“How'd you get out?”

 

“Could ask you the same thing.”

 

Gabriel wasn't talking about the holding rooms.

 

“I watched you die,” Jack started quietly. “You stopped breathing.”

 

“Did I?” Gabe's voice was restrained. Holding himself back. Angry at Jack, and rightfully so. He should have stayed. This was his fault. If he hadn't taken the job in the first place none of this would have happened.

 

Jack looked down, shrugging Gabe's hand away, wishing he could see properly so he could focus on condensation on the shower wall. “I should have stayed with you.”

 

“You didn't.”

 

“I know.” He could feel his shoulders locking up again. Dammit, the whole point of this shower was to relax, not to become even more stressed. “I'm sorry.”

 

Arms circled his waist and pulled him close enough for Jack to press his lips into the space between Gabe's shoulder and his neck. He could feel Gabe resting his head on Jack, an echo of affection they once shared.

 

“You _do_ smell like gunpowder,” Jack mumbled into Gabe's skin. It was faint, but definitely there, hidden away under the smell of his smoke.

 

“What?”

 

He shook his head, then realized Gabe couldn't see him. “Nothing.”

 

“You forget what I smell like, anciano?”

 

The younger Gabriel had called him that too. He could already guess what it meant.

 

“No,” he groused. “Just making sure.”

 

Somehow, this was more unreal than looking his younger self in the eyes. There was another pause where all Jack could hear was the water as it ran over them and pooled in the bottom of the shower.

 

“What happened to us?” Jack sighed, echoing Morrison's questions. Perhaps Gabe had an answer.

 

“I did,” replied Gabe simply.

 

Months of loneliness and convincing himself he and Gabe still had something. Those last few moments of yelling and fighting. Thirty damn years of waiting, of barely living at all.

 

“But I took the promotion. I shouldn't have.”

 

Gabe didn't answer.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Gabe turned off the shower. The air cooled almost instantly. “You're wasting the water.”

 

“Right.” Jack stepped away from him. He knew a signal to back off when he saw it.

 

He ducked out of the shower and into the bathroom, foggy and humid. Besides his clothes, crumpled in a heap on the floor, was a folded mess of black coats and blacker layers. He felt for a towel and dried his face, patting himself down, and held the visor up. Gabe was on the other side of the room, finding his own towel and drying himself almost obsessively.

 

He looked over at Jack, defensive. “What?”

 

Jack shook his head and set the mask back down. With the fasteners broken he couldn't wear it. Blurred silhouettes would have to be his world until they could get back and it could be repaired.

 

He pulled his shirt over his chest, wincing as it nicked his injuries. There were still four neat rips in it, and underneath the material four matching cuts from Gabe's claws. Trousers were easier, except for an ache in his back from Gabriel hurling him into the sink. The jacket could wait until they returned.

 

“So this is it.”

 

He watched Gabe's outline pause. “What?”

 

“We go back. Like nothing happened.” _Just like it used to be. At the end._

 

The blur moved. Jack couldn't tell what it was doing.

 

“Then I join Overwatch again, and you probably kill me.”

 

“I couldn't kill you,” Gabe said.

 

Something that could have once been hope rose in Jack's chest. He hid the feeling by burying his face in a towel, pretending to dry his hair so he would't have to respond to Gabe's words.

 

“Jack,” he began, still on the other side of the room. Too far away.

 

Gabriel's words wouldn't be an apology, nor a confession; Jack didn't know if he wanted to hear it. He'd wanted this to go differently, any other way than these disjointed words and heavy silences. Gabe had come back to him, but it'd been a replay of the ending, everything Jack hated about their relationship.

 

He started again. “Jack.” Harder this time, edged.

 

Jack pushed the towel further into his face. He was starting to see the patterns which appeared when you rubbed your eyes for too long. At least he could see the winking stars and undulating lights properly.

 

Footsteps crossing the room and suddenly Gabe's voice was so much closer.

 

“I'm trying to fix this, estupido,” he grumbled, pulling Jack's hands away from his face.

 

“I know,” Jack muttered, averting his eyes. Gabe's hand hooked under his chin and his lips met Jack's, backing down despite his pride, how much he knew he was in the right and Jack was in the wrong. Always trying to be better, do better than Jack.

 

Gabriel's teeth were too sharp, smoke was filling his mouth, but Jack didn't care. He wanted this too badly, needed it after what happened with the younger Gabriel. But this wasn't innocent, wasn't the playfulness he'd felt before; this was need. Both of them were rushing to make up for lost time, to fit too much into too small a space. Gabe's hands were clumsy, hungrily roving over Jack's chest and grabbing his ass. He forced Jack back into the sink, hitching him up so that he could rest on it, hands still moving too quickly and smoke coasting off his shoulders. Jack could barely breathe, all he could smell was Gabe's smog -

 

He broke away, coughing, and Gabriel growled, angry at the pause. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

 

“Can't keep up?” he spat, clearly not finished.

 

“Can't _breathe_ ,” Jack corrected between choking sounds.

 

Gabe's face fell slightly, realizing why, and he looked down. He sighed, a long plume of the same smoke that had settled in Jack's lungs drifting from his nose with the action.

 

Jack cleared his throat, having expelled as much of the acrid gas as possible. His forehead met Gabe's and they leaned together for a moment, trying to apologize again without repeating the words. At this distance he could almost make out facial features.

 

He'd missed Gabriel so much. How their breath was almost in time even now, the slight pause in between the inhale and the exhale, slow pacing that still calmed Jack down. Gabe's closeness, the comfort in his touch, even if he wasn't so warm any more.

 

“We're getting too old for this,” he mumbled.

 

Gabe could have smirked, perhaps a ghost of that triumphant grin which had always seemed to be on his face when he got his way, but with his poor eyesight Jack couldn't be sure. “No, you're getting too old for this.”

 

Jack huffed a sound like a laugh. “You're older than me.”

 

There was a knock on the bathroom door, dull sounds of someone else checking to make sure the room was empty before using it. Fuck. Why did Jack think it was a good idea to use the building's communal shower room?

 

“One second,” Jack called, looking back at Gabe and pushing off the sink.

 

“Jack?” came a friendly laugh. Reinhardt. “You are certainly awake early!”

 

Gabe cursed, hurriedly pulling on clothes. The doorknob was turning.

 

“Just go!” hissed Jack. He shoved the mask into Gabe's hands and again pressed his own to his face as Reinhardt stepped inside.

 

He laughed, approaching Jack and grinning widely. “My mistake, Soldier.”

 

Jack turned, but Gabe was already gone. He supposed being able to turn into smoke at will had some positives. He nodded stiffly in acknowledgement of Reinhardt's comment, waiting out the idle talk until he could make a beeline for the door. Just as he closed it, he heard Reinhardt start singing to himself.

 

_"Hooked on a feeling... I'm high on believing..."_

 

Jack blinked, suppressing a laugh. Christ, he was glad he was going home soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hola, pendejo = hello, asshole  
> anciano = (very) old man  
> estupido = stupid


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact which i forget whether ive mentioned or not: in this story if reaper's mouth is shut or he's otherwise not letting out enough smoke, it builds up and gets more concentrated the longer he doesn't let it out. so if he's talking, breathing or otherwise opening his mouth a lot, the smoke is barely noticeable (like steam), but if he's knocked out for a while or not talking much, when he speaks the smoke is a lot darker and slower, more like smog

It took longer than Reaper expected for the building to wake up. Silence broken by a quiet mumble and echoing footsteps that became loud and repetitive as more started the day. The muttering soon became muted talking, hundreds of individual conversations and stories moving past him.

 

He was practically counting down the seconds until this experience ended. The one good thing to come out of this clusterfuck was Jack, still alive, but even then Reaper wasn't sure that was totally a good thing. What was he supposed to do now? He'd be sent to kill Jack eventually, especially now that he was joining Overwatch again. Reaper had already made it pretty obvious that he didn't have the strength to kill Jack; Talon finding out his weakness would be like a burning hot poker to the face. If the poker was made of acid.

 

If they found out, would they try to make him into another Lacroix? Clear away everything that made him special, everything that was left after the bomb had tried the same thing, and just leave it? Widowmaker's mind hadn't been repurposed, it had simply been emptied. She had been told what was required for basic human function and simply pointed in the right direction. A ruthless machine, a perfectly cold-blooded killer. Reaper folded his arms, in his mind comparing the Amelie Lacroix of the past to the Widowmaker he knew. There was something wrong about removing a person's mind like that, wiping what made them who they were off the face of the earth. That couldn't be returned. Lacroix was gone forever.

 

He saw someone settle beside him out of the corner of his eye. Blue and white. Fucking Jack, of course. By the looks of it, the younger Jack too. Morrison.

 

“You get much sleep?” he asked, nonchalant.

 

“No,” replied Reaper flatly. Dead bodies didn't sleep. Apparently, given his interaction with Jack earlier in the morning, old soldiers didn't either.

 

There was a long pause between them where more bodies passed. Some of them Reaper knew. Blackwatch members that fell into Talon after Overwatch's destruction. Dead soldiers who gave their lives to protect Morrison's.

 

Smoke was wafting from his nostrils, filtering through his mask. Idly, he wondered what it smelled like. What he smelled like. Jack had mentioned gunpowder, phrased it in such a way that Reaper wondered if he'd forgotten what he smelled of. Then again, it wasn't like Gabe could quite remember what Jack's scent had been before dirty leather and shattered dreams.

 

“If I ask you something, can you answer honestly?”

 

Reaper turned his head slightly, an indication for Morrison to continue. This was why he'd started conversation. He wanted something. The action was something he recognized, remembered from those last few months before the explosion.

 

“Was it me?”

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Reaper could see the way he'd fixated on the ground. He'd forgotten Jack used to do that.

 

Morrison seemed to take the silence as an excuse to continue.

 

“Gabe sets a bomb off at a UN meeting.” He was careful, voice hesitant. “I'm there, and I go blind because of it.”

 

Reaper nodded once.

 

“He wouldn't – you wouldn't just bomb the UN. You wouldn't try to kill me. There has to be more.”

 

Sure there was, but it wasn't something Morrison needed to know. Tracer had said they couldn't change it anyway.

 

“Gabe,” Morrison started again.

 

He turned his head so that he couldn't see wide blue eyes come up to stare at him. “Reaper.”

 

“What happened, Reaper?”

 

“I did.” The simplest explanation there was. How many times had he said that in the last few days?

 

A hand, slipping into his. “No. What really happened? Did I – is this my fault?”

 

 _Yes._ “No.”

 

“I don't want this to happen,” Morrison said, and his voice hitched on the last word. Reaper looked back at him, something aching in his chest at the emotion painted over Morrison's face. His Jack had barely expressed half of whatever was in front of him the whole week. “Tell me how to change it.”

 

“You can't.”

 

Desperation and anger flicked across his face. “I don't care!”

 

Reaper sighed stiffly, blowing smoke through the mask. Calm down. “Then resign, Strike Commander.”

 

Silence.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me,” he muttered, pushing down misplaced hatred and wrenching his hand away from Morrison's. Now was not the time.

 

Voices were calling through the people walking past. Jack, his Jack. Still holding that dumb mask to his face.

 

He adjusted the thing, barely paying attention to his doppelganger. “Tracer's ready.”

 

Reaper nodded, stepping away from Morrison and following Jack. As they moved he realized Jack was too slow. Reaper's steps were longer, quicker.

 

“Slow down,” Jack mumbled, yanking Reaper's coat backwards.

 

Dead bodies didn't age, either. It hadn't occurred to him. Reaper didn't feel old, didn't feel slow or tired. Jack looked it, even in the way he walked, resigned and bitter.

 

He joked to hide the foreboding that was quickly settling in his chest. “What, you tired already?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Hey, hey! Look who's finally turned up,” came a laugh. Tracer, all cheer and wide smiles. The accelerator in her chest was clearly well-repaired. Stood beside her was the rest of Overwatch, just as he remembered it. Mercy, looking exhausted. Ana, still with that piercing gaze. Reinhardt and Torbjorn, both of them grinning widely. McCree, arms folded and cigar lit. Reaper almost felt something other than contempt for the little gathering.

 

And - there. Behind them all. Reyes, barely visible with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face. He and Reaper clearly felt the same way about the situation.

 

Tracer jumped, a streak of blue behind her, and suddenly she was in front of them. It was obvious enough she still didn't trust Reaper; keeping a distance even now. It was fair. In her position, Reaper wouldn't trust himself either.

 

“Ready to go?” she asked, clearly as excited as they were to leave.

 

Next to him, Jack nodded.

 

Taking both Reaper and Jack's hands, Tracer stepped forward and took a breath. She nudged Jack.

 

“They're here to see us off,” she said. “Go on, say goodbye.”

 

Jack looked across at Reaper and raised his hand awkwardly, trying to wave and keep his mask on at the same time. Reaper stifled a laugh.

 

Reyes was staring at him and Reaper met his eyes. For a second, the expression of death on his face slipped, something unrecognizable replacing it. Fear? Anticipation? Jealousy? Reaper didn't know. 

 

“Right,” Tracer chirped, bobbing on her feet. “Hold on, I've never gone this far on purpose before.”

 

She started walking, Reaper and Jack keeping pace. They were slow at first, but Tracer's step quickened within seconds, Reaper struggling to maintain the acceleration. He looked up and Morrison was in front of him, wide eyes and golden hair and sadness.

 

The world jittered and Reaper struggled to keep himself together.

 

 

* * *

 

 

People were talking. He was too light, had to concentrate to feel his own mass. Could he stand?

 

Reaper pushed himself to his knees, tensed the muscles in his hands as he curled and uncurled his fingers, trying to regain feeling in them. Jack's memorial stood above him, an echo of the face he'd just left behind. His guns were strewn on the ground where he'd left them. It was probably only moments in the past he'd left them there, but to Reaper it was too long ago.

 

“Gabe?” came a familiar voice.

 

Someone leaned down and offered him a hand. Reaper took it and pulled himself to his feet. Jack, eyes vacant. They were trying to focus, though. Still too low, staring at his cheeks. Either he'd started slouching with age or he'd shrunk. Either way, Reaper found it pretty funny.

 

“Where's Tracer?” he grumbled, near-black smoke sliding heavily through the mask. He must have been out a while.

 

Jack gestured. She was sprawled on the ground, apparently still out. “Last one up.”

 

The quiet between them was filled with the sounds of town, passive chattering from the streets and cars humming to themselves. Jack held his mask to his face.

 

“What now?”

 

Reaper shrugged, playing off his racing thoughts through indifference. “It starts again, I guess.”

 

Overwatch reforms. It destroys Talon, then collapses under the weight of peace and leaves its members estranged and broken. A scratched CD, a broken record. Doomed to repeat over and over. Reaper wondered if he'd be around to see it fall again.

 

“Are you coming?” Jack asked, picking up one of Reaper's shotguns and handing it to him.

 

“No.”

 

He sighed. “You're sure about this?”

 

A beat passed before Reaper replied. “Yes.”

 

“So what happens to us?”

 

Reaper bent down to pick up his other gun, deliberately putting off a response. Technically, he worked for Talon, but it wasn't like the higher-ups were about to question his decisions. They knew who he was well enough. They'd seen the files, what he was capable of even before he'd lost his humanity. It was probably the reason why he'd not been confronted thus far despite his erratic behavior. Too aggressive, too violent, on top of that searching out Overwatch artifacts in particular. Winston. The Gauntlet. And then Tracer. Still not a word from Talon.

 

Somehow, though, he figured they'd draw the line at “casually meeting up with the former Strike Commander of Overwatch for sex and/or comfort time”.

 

He looked across at Jack, raising a hand so his hooked claw could pick at the side of Jack's mask, trying to convince him to take it off again. He wouldn't join Talon. Jack was too goody-good, too straight-backed for that.

 

“This doesn't have to stop,” Jack muttered, clearly desperate for more contact with Reaper. “We can keep doing this.”

 

Christ, time really was repeating itself.

 

“And if Overwatch finds out?”

 

“They won't.”

 

He barked a laugh, clouds of smoke hopefully masking his doubt. “Right.”

 

Maybe he was stuck in a loop. An endless cycle of growing apart and coming together. If he was honest with himself, the way Jack's hands were working their way into his, the forgotten easiness with which they exchanged words, it was – nice. Welcome, even.

 

Tracer groaned, stirring from her place on the ground. She was waking up; Reaper had to leave before she started asking questions he'd already given Jack the answers to.

 

“Come on, Gabe," Jack said, something that could be a smile in his voice. "You wanna go 'round again?”

 

He looked back and Jack's mask was off yet again, eyes meeting Reaper's for a change.

 

Aw, what the hell.

 

“I do.”

  
Maybe it'd be different this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so, so much for reading. im so happy for all the love and feedback this story got!! at some point i really want to turn this fic into a series of stories with b-grade TV show plotlines, like body swaps and cloning and stuff. so look out for that ;D
> 
> anyway, thank you all so much again. the support this story got means so much to me and im so happy that so many people enjoyed it. thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what i'm doing but frankly i love these grandpas and nobody can stop me from ruining their lives
> 
> visit me on tumblr & talk to me about these two @ sirenreyes.tumblr.com


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